Out of the Deep
by EvilFluffyBiteyThing
Summary: Based on a plot suggested by the Rose of Truro; not for Henry Fitzroy Fans. Minor female courtiers are being horribly murdered, and it is up to Thomas Cromwell to track down the killer. More detailed summary inside. Mostly Cromwell and Rich, with a bit of Brandon at the end - hope you enjoy!
1. The Day after She Died

**Author's Note:** First of all, I'd like to acknowledge the Rose of Truro for coming up with this plot bunny a couple of years ago, which I came across while browsing the forum as a lurker. As it doesn't look as though the bunny sprouted (how's that for mixed allegories), and it involves the gruesome twosome, I was more than tempted to give it a go.

* * *

Before we begin - this is not a 'Silver Sword' story, and is not set in that same alternate universe. Where possible, I've tried to align more completely with actual history than previously - with one obvious exception. So, in this story, Cromwell is not Lord Chancellor, as he never held that post; and Rich is not the Solicitor General, as he stood down in the spring of 1536 to take up the Chancellorship of the Court of Augmentations. As this does rather throw a spanner in the works over the plausibility of his participation in a criminal investigation, I've created another reason for him to become involved.

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing other than that which has emerged from my imagination.

* * *

Thomas Cromwell has always been regarded for his efficiency and capability; thus it is made his responsibility to investigate when the body of a woman is discovered hideously dismembered in her own chamber. Dragooning the unwilling Sir Richard Rich into assisting him, the pair find themselves working to uncover a murderer who seems to leave no clues to their identity or motive.

With the resistance of hostile courtiers, and even a popular rebellion, to hamper them, they must track down a killer whose depravity is matched only by their anonymity - until an unexpected development suggests the unthinkable: the killer is royal…

* * *

Out of the depe call I unto the Lorde

Lorde heare my voyce

Oh let thyne eares consyder well the voyce of my complaynte

If thou Lord wylt be extreme to marke what is done a mysse

Oh Lorde who maye abide it;

But there is mercy wyth thee

That thou mayest be feared.

I loke for the Lord

My soule doth wayte for hym

And in his worde is my trust.

My soule doth paciently abyde the Lorde

From the one mornynge to the other.

Let Israel trust in the Lorde

For with the Lorde, there is mercy and plenteous retempcion.

And he shal redeme Israel from al his synnes

Psalm 130

From the Thomas Matthew Bible, 1537

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

 _The Day after She Died_

Dawn is breaking; a magnificent affair of gold and peach that reaches out to banish the darkness of the night that has passed. Boats are already on the river, making their way downstream with the tide: wherries heading to the wharves to seek customers, barges bringing goods to the markets in the City and a few souls in their own row-boats that pass the elegant balustrades and façades of the Palace of Whitehall.

Few are about at this hour, for there was much celebrating the previous night, for those who wished to, or those who felt that they should. His Majesty, King Henry, eighth of that name, is once more without a wife - a state that he achieved with so little effort upon his own part, and so much upon the part of others.

None speak of her now, that witch-like Nan Bullen. Queen once, but then no more, and now she herself is no more, her head parted from her neck by the sword of a French executioner only a day ago. A quick death, to be sure - though the whisperers and gossips make much of the clemency of a King who could have sent her to the fire. Perhaps he ordered it so that it would be too quick for her to use witchcraft to escape - for did she not bewitch the King? Some even believe it.

And so, the Queen's apartments are empty once more, where once a musician played and sang, and a vivacious, dark-locked woman held court surrounded by ranks of admirers. All know that the King dined last night on the mate of a Cob Swan, stewed and baked into a pie, and the feathers all put back upon it. Seven years, it took to get her - and she was gone in less than four; taking five men to the grave in her wake.

There are more people about now, for the King intends to hunt today, and many of the great Lords shall ride out with him; though not the Earl of Wiltshire, who has departed in disgrace with nothing but the ghosts of his children to keep him company. Even Thomas Howard of Norfolk, the grandest and most royal of Nobles, has departed for a time to lick his wounds, for he was not left untouched by the scandal of the King's whore.

Servants bustle about amongst the corridors, their black livery marking them out from those of higher state. They comment, they gossip - just as all others do, but their words are more free, for who listens to such as they?

 _Her own brother, they say. To get a son to give the King, and save her life. No wonder it swilled in blood from her womb - an abomination against God!_

 _And how many others? A wanton, to be sure - and against our good King Hal. May she burn forever for her presumption and mortal sin!_

None of those in finer garments speak so - for their words would get back to a King who wishes never to hear the name 'Boleyn' again. Her name is not to be spoken, nor those of the men with whom she fornicated - known and unknown, for was it not said that she had many more lovers? He broke with Rome to win her, and instead won only shame.

A shaft of sunlight flits through a lancet window onto the face of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. He squints briefly and turns away, reaching for a pair of black leather gauntlets from his manservant before pulling down the front of his doublet to straighten it. Of all the nobles at Court, he is almost always present to hunt with the King, for their friendship is celebrated. Even so, he has, on occasion, stirred Henry's wrath, and has endured banishments as a consequence.

Today, however, he is a welcome distraction to a King eager for sport in the light of the disastrous end of his marriage. They shall ride out over the park of St James to seek deer in the mists of early morning, and the ride shall make all well again.

He moves with a swift stride - the stride of a man well used to action. He is early, but, even so, the Mews are alive with noise as the grooms bring the saddled horses out for their riders. His own mount, a fine black-maned Bay gelding named Ajax after the hero of the _Iliad_ , is ready for him, and he is quickly aboard, reaching down to lift a cup of wine from a tray held by a steward.

As he sips, he watches the King emerge from his apartments. He is limping less today: always a good sign. His fall at the Joust at the beginning of the year has opened up an old wound on his leg, and now it refuses to heal - at times so foul and stinking that none wish to be near him unless they must be.

"Ho, Charles!" he calls, merrily, as though all that happened yesterday was another hunt, just like this one, "A fine morning for sport!" He snatches a silver goblet from a tray held for him and gulps down the wine it contains in six hefty swallows.

"Yes, your Majesty." He agrees, benignly, as Henry is helped aboard Pégase, a magnificent black charger gifted to him at Eastertide by the King of France that rides so fast that one might believe he could indeed rise to the sky like the mythical beast after which he was named. Despite the sport ahead, the King is in tawny velvet slashed with cloth of gold that serves to expand his already expanding girth, for he eats as he did when his leg was healthy - even though now it is not.

Gradually other men of the Court emerge to mount up and depart. The whisperings are silenced by proximity, but even so there are knowing glances behind the King's back. Another marriage foundered on the rocks; another bairn dispatched to bastardy - for now he has three, does he not? But only one left that he values: the boy. The only boy he has ever managed to sire, who - it seems - is late.

* * *

"There you are, Boy!" Henry cries, after the clock has struck the quarter after the hour, "And we were primed to leave without you!"

His voice is indulgent, for the youth that approaches can do no wrong in his eyes. Named after his father in every respect, Henry Fitzroy - Henry Son-of-the-King - grins boyishly, his blue eyes glittering, his dark hair - after that of his mother Bessie Blount - bouncing in curls about his neck, leaps into the saddle of his horse with the agility and ebullience of his seventeen years.

"Forgive me, Majesty!" He says, with neither remorse nor contrition, "I was held by the beauty of the morn, encapsulated in a sunbeam!"

The King laughs, delightedly, though the courtiers he cannot see exchange pained glances. Even Brandon cringes inside at the inanity of the comment. Did he pay someone to write it for him?

The hunt departs with a clattering of hoofs upon the cobblestones, leaving behind stewards, grooms and the inevitable piles of manure that remain after a gathering of horses. Henry leads the pack at a brisk trot - no surprise aboard Pégase - and Fitzroy keeps pace with him as they talk together. A few paces behind, Brandon allows himself to ignore the conversations ahead and behind, and instead indulges in reverie to occupy the mile or so that lies between the hunters and the wilder parts of the park where their quarry awaits.

Of all the children Henry has sired - for he has sired a few, those who have lived, those who have died, those whom he has not acknowledged - only this one remains close now. Mary is gone from Court, her name sullied with bastardy as her mother was set aside; and now the little three-year old, Elizabeth, has joined her in that unhappy state - orphaned as surely as though both parents had died. All he has now is his son - also a bastard, but a happier one, to be sure; for he is what they were not. He is male.

Henry dotes on the youth - at six years old, he was ennobled; by ten, a member of the Lords and bringing charges against the late Cardinal Wolsey. Warden of the Cinque Ports, Admiral of England, Ireland and Normandy, and Lieutenant of Ireland, to boot. None are so favoured as this young man - for he is Henry's greatest hope of succession in the absence of any other.

Fitzroy has been away from Court for some time, back at Collyweston - his home near Stamford - until a week ago, when he came down to stay at a fine Manor a mile or so upstream from Whitehall, until he travelled to the Tower to watch the former Queen die. Brandon shudders for a moment - for he was there, too.

There were few present, for her death was not in public - granted the privacy of Tower Green over the spectacle of Tower Hill. Only the most important were present to watch her end - including that black-clad corvid Cromwell, who had so ruthlessly brought her to the scaffold.

Brandon shudders again. Even though acting upon the orders of the King: orders that came after he, Brandon, had suggested that his Majesty's wife might not be entirely faithful to him, Cromwell acted with a singleminded purpose against a woman whose family had all but sponsored him after Wolsey's disgrace. The swiftness of it: the efficiency. No one can demand speed and efficiency like Henry, and no one can supply it like Thomas Cromwell.

 _Did he care?_ Brandon wonders, _did it matter to him that he had brought six people to their deaths?_ He recalls a conversation - how long ago now? When Cromwell claimed that he _did_ have a heart, even if people thought him heartless. After yesterday's events. He cannot help but wonder if that is really true.

A shout of laughter from the King pulls Brandon from his thoughts, and he wonders what Fitzroy said to inspire it. Not that it matters now, for the beaters are nearby, and the hounds are ready to be loosed.

"And now to sport, my lad!" Henry declares, "And while we hunt, I wait to wed my new wife, and to make you my true son. I have set one man upon it, and it shall be done!" with a chuck of his tongue, he shakes his reins and kicks his heels into Pégase's flanks to stir the beast to a gallop.

Urging Ajax on, Brandon sighs inwardly. He knows who that man is - and equally knows that it shall, most efficiently, be done.

* * *

The atmosphere in the room is quietly industrious, as young men in black livery move between desks, write, proofread or copy as their tasks are set. All about them are shelves and racks of papers, books and files: the trappings of effective governance, and each of them adds more to the stock.

As they work, Thomas Wriothesley, a thin man dressed in olive green with receding hair and a guarded expression, sits at his desk and writes busily with a goose quill. Every now and again, he looks up to ensure that people are still at work, for there is much to be done: The King wishes to be wedded to his new wife as soon as possible and, even in the Chapel Royal, a wedding takes time to prepare.

Swift footsteps alert him to the arrival of the King's Chief Minister - one name amongst many, though most are not repeated to the man's face - and he looks up as Brandon's Corvid enters the chambers. Clad, as always, in black, his chain of office resting upon his shoulders, Thomas Cromwell pauses briefly to acknowledge his colleague. They exchange few words, for neither has the time for idle conversation; after two ventures into marriage that required all manner of legal and ecclesiastical wriggling to be effected, the King demands that this one be unimpeachably legal, and it is the job of Cromwell and the King's secretary, Wriothesley, to ensure that it is.

Time is, as always, not on Cromwell's side. The King may well trust him to ensure all is done - but his ability to do so has certainly ensured that no one seems able to do anything at all without either consulting him, or seeking his approval. _Does no one else in this benighted place know how to think for themselves?_ He thinks, crossly, as he seats himself at his desk. So much to do, and so little time to do it. Perhaps he should encourage the King to arrange another six hours to every day. He might then be able to keep up with his workload and find more time to sleep.

Not that he slept much last night. Unlike most of the court, who assume he has neither heart nor conscience, Cromwell is very aware that he does. If yesterday had been an ordeal for Anne, at least now she is at peace; at rest. He, on the other hand, most certainly is not.

The evidence he was charged to secure was largely hearsay, gossip and - hence - unverifiable; but he was obliged to find it, and so he did. Though the cost to his mortal soul…

He shakes himself, and tries to concentrate. There is no point in revisiting that which cannot be changed - as he has learned well from his own losses. Liz - his little girls…even Wolsey, to some degree. That is the only satisfaction that he has from the whole escapade, for at least he has wrought some mean measure of revenge against Boleyn and Howard, who acted so cruelly to destroy the man to whom he owes his entire career.

He spent half of yesterday evening on his knees in the Chapel Royal, asking for forgiveness as best he could - not just for his crimes against Anne, but for the spite that even now inspires a sense of justice that shivers up and down his back. He has no time for petty vengeance. No time for regrets. It takes all his time just to do that which the King's Grace demands of him.

Wriothesley is at his side, and he looks up, attempting to pretend that the absence of words upon the paper before him is thanks to contemplation of the matter in hand.

"Forgive my intrusion, my Lord," the Secretary says, in his oddly monotone voice, "I have the paperwork for the newly established Court of Augmentations ready for filing. His Majesty has approved all the clauses, and the appointments of Officers."

Cromwell nods, a little bemused. He does not need to know this, "And?"

"Merely to advise you that the Chancellor is due to begin his work today - would you like me to ask one of the Clerks to clear a desk for his use?"

He sighs; in all of yesterday's events, he had quite forgotten, "Yes, Mr Secretary. Given the incumbent, I suspect one of the better-placed situations might be wise."

Wriothesley nods discreetly, and withdraws, summoning two of the Clerks as he does so. Returning to the paper upon his desk, Cromwell re-charges his quill and attempts to start making notes.

Someone else is standing over him. Setting the quill down again, he wishes that he could scream with frustration. What _now_? He turns and looks up to see the Palace Constable, who looks perturbed.

"What?" He asks, a little more crossly than he intended.

"I'm sorry to bother you, my Lord." The Constable says, clutching his black velvet bonnet rather nervously, "A body has been found."

* * *

 _The problem with being so damned efficient_. Cromwell thinks to himself as he strides after the hurrying Constable, _is that everyone makes everything your problem._

He wonders if he should try being a little less competent - in the hopes that people might leave him alone to get on with his work. If it were not an affront to his personal fastidiousness, then he might be willing to try it.

One of the Palace Guards is waiting for them as they approach the Privy Bridge and Stairs. A colonnaded jetty that stretches out into the Thames, it is not uncommon for varied dead things to become entangled amidst the pilings, or wash up on the steps.

Though, that said, they are not normally human dead things.

"She was left there as the tide went down, my Lord." The Constable advises, as Cromwell steps carefully down to the landing, and bends over the sodden corpse. He looks at it for several minutes, before turning back to the Constable, "Fetch Doctor Butts."

Bemused, the Constable nods, and dispatches a Guard.

The woman is not dressed richly - her dress a plain broadcloth in a dull tawny brown. Her hair falls about her face in long rat-tails, and her face has that pasty whiteness that belongs to those found dead in the water. Cromwell looks up to see that more guards have arrived. The water of the river is slopping up onto the stone landing, and he has no wish to remain where he is - there is far too much unpleasantness that might splash over his shoes and nether hose.

"Constable," He says, "Fetch this woman from the landing and bring her up onto the bridge so that the Doctor can examine her." He pauses, and looks down at her dress, drenched in sewage-rich river water that reeks like a privy in the worst summer heat, "You may wish to wear gloves."

They have her on the bridge by the time Butts appears. His robes are as black as Cromwell's though his head is encased in a black scholar's cap. His eyes are keen, his expression intrigued - for he is not normally expected to deal with such matters, "What has been found, my Lord?" He asks, mildly.

"A woman, Doctor." Cromwell advises, quietly, "Found washed up upon the Privy Stairs - I wish to be certain that she is not a victim of contagion." He chooses to ignore the looks of consternation on the faces of the soldiers who moved her. Carefully arranging the folds of his simarre, he kneels down alongside the corpse, as Butts prepares to do the same.

Donning a pair of leather gauntlets, the Doctor spends a long time examining the blotchy, waxy looking face, before extending his examinations down to her neck and shoulders. He pauses, then looks up at the nearest Guard, "You, boy. Come here and help me roll her over."

The boy stares at him in horror - and it is only a cuff on the back of the head from the Constable that persuades him to comply. Again, Butts continues his examination, before sighing, "I see no evidence of contagion, my Lord - but there are some aspects to this corpse which disturb me. I must beg your pardon for what I must do now."

Even Cromwell's eyebrows raise at this.

Gently, as though in doing so he might wake the woman, Butts raises her skirts. She wears no stockings, and both men are shocked at the livid bruises that emerge as her thighs are uncovered. The sound of crunching gravel causes Cromwell to look up; the Constable has turned all of his young Guards away so that they have their backs to the corpse. Smiling again, he shakes his head, turns back - and wishes he had not.

Butts has raised the skirts up to the waist now, and her most private parts are on open display. The bruising continues all the way up to her hips, and more contusions emerge from that most private of a woman's parts. Moving delicately, Butts parts the thighs, and nods, "It is as I feared."

"What is?" Cromwell asks, having raised his head to look elsewhere as soon as he realised what Butts was doing.

"There is no evidence of contagion; but much evidence of violence. This woman has not merely been beaten, alas - a man has ravaged her quite maliciously and extensively." He pauses, "You may look now if you wish. I have replaced her skirts."

"Has she drowned?" Cromwell asks.

Butts shakes his head, "I think not." He points, "See this thin red line? I suspect that she was instead strangled, for this would seem to me to be the mark of a ligature of some kind. Her last hours must have been truly cruel."

Cromwell sighs, "So she was murdered, then?"

"It would appear so - though where, and by whom, I could not tell you. I cannot even say with any certainty how long she has been in the river, or the moment at which she died."

Now that she is decent again, Cromwell borrows a pair of gloves from one of the Guards and searches her carefully. There is no pocket in her bodice, nor is there a scrip. She wears no jewels, and there is nothing to identify her. "From her garb," He says eventually, "I can only say with certainty that she is not from the Palace. Therefore she does not fall within our jurisdiction."

The Constable leans over them, "Do you wish me to arrange to turn her over to the City authorities, my Lord?"

Cromwell nods, "Thank you, Constable. I think there is little more that we can do - let them take her and grant her a decent burial; and that shall be an end of it."

* * *

Cromwell returns to the palace accompanied by the clattering of hoofs from the nearby Mews, and he knows that the King has returned. Idly wondering if they caught anything, he strolls inside. The hunt has been out for nearly five hours by his reckoning. With luck, the King shall be too tired to bother with business today - and he might actually get something done.

Wriothesley is lurking his desk again like a bad smell, and he sighs, "What is it, Mr Wriothesley? I have been examining a stinking corpse fished out of the river, and I do not wish to be bothered for at least an hour. I am behind enough as it is."

He looks up; standing nearby is a man wearing a patterned doublet and a rather discontented expression. With his sandy hair, beard and long, brown-furred simarre, Cromwell imagines to himself that the man rather resembles a squirrel. A bad tempered squirrel.

"Sir Richard has arrived." Wriothesley says, rather unnecessarily. Cromwell knows full well who he is.

They have said nothing to each other since the trials, for he does not like Sir Richard Rich. During those weeks, he was still the Solicitor General for England, and Attorney General for Wales: a lawyer to the marrow, smart tongued, unprincipled and probably dishonest as well. Between them, Cromwell and Rich had dismantled the careful edifice of advancement built so solidly by the Boleyn faction, and had emerged from it without any rapprochement whatsoever. But then, Rich is no novice at such activity - for he had calmly perjured himself to bring about the end of two far better men with great principles and integrity; so to destroy greedy, grasping people of lesser principles? Hardly a challenge.

"Sir Richard." Cromwell says, with stiff formality.

"My Lord." Rich answers, with equal rigid courtesy, inclining his head just sufficiently to avoid appearing ill mannered, but not far enough to be respectful.

Wriothesley looks at the pair, and shivers slightly - somehow, despite the May warmth, the chambers have become considerably colder.


	2. An Uneasy Partnership

CHAPTER TWO

 _An Uneasy Partnership_

Seated at his desk, Wriothesley scratches away with his quill, despite the need to sharpen it again, and tries to ignore the sense of chill that pervades the office chambers. While he has always known that Cromwell and Rich do not see eye to eye, and indeed would avoid each other at all costs were they not obliged to be in each other's presence during meetings of the Privy Council, he has never realised that there is such friction between them.

Cromwell is busy at his desk, as always. He is chewing at the inside of his cheek, Wriothesley notes from that odd hollow and the shape of the Minister's mouth; always a sign that he is in a poor temper. Although he considers it likely that Rich is the reason for Cromwell's mood, Wriothesley is not one to speculate upon such matters. The fact that the new Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations has not yet managed to arrive at his desk, however, suggests that the Secretary is right.

His nib blots, and he mutters a cross word under his breath before reaching to his pot for his pen-knife. Like all scribes, he is well practised in the art of sharpening a quill, and he sits quietly as he does so, shaving the nib over a platter to catch the waste. The work complete, he examines the new cut carefully, before setting back down to work again, only to be startled by the door of the offices opening rather more quickly than he is used to, setting the shards of the feather shaft aloft, all over his work.

Wriothesley looks up sharply, shooting an irritated scowl at the Clerk who should know better than to hurl the door open so; and is obliged to hastily rearrange his expression at the sight of Rich, who ignores him and instead marches briskly to his desk - apparently unaware that everyone else has been at theirs for two hours or more. The Chief Minister and the King's Secretary share a glance; not the best start to the day, it seems.

There is nothing in the way of papers upon Rich's desk; not yet, at least, for the Court has yet to begin its business. Instead, he arranges his ink pot, quills and knife to his liking - always swan quills, for they are stiffer and more suited to his writing - reaches for a sheet of rough rag paper and starts to set down notes in a most bizarre sequence of letters and symbols. One of the Clerks, filing nearby, looks at his work for a moment, and exchanges a bemused glance with one of his friends.

Unaware of their scrutiny, Rich continues to scrawl, until his attention is caught by a shadow over the paper as someone blocks his light. Raising his head, he is about to curse the irritating individual, only to find that it is Cromwell.

"Can I be of assistance, my Lord?" he asks, his tone brittle.

Standing over Rich, Cromwell sighs and wonders if the man at the desk realises just how easily he shows his thoughts upon his face. The words might be polite - albeit frosty - but there is no disguising his mild contempt for the man who is now his superior. Ignoring it, for everyone at court tends to hold a similar opinion of him, Cromwell attempts to thaw the chilly atmosphere, "I thought it would be useful for us to discuss your plans for the operations of the new Court."

Rich waves the paper briefly, "I am setting down my thoughts." He does not add that he was forming those thoughts last night with the aid of his mistress in the warmth of his bed.

Cromwell is bemused for a moment, for he knows that Rich's writing is usually a rather fine and exact Chancery hand, and this scrawl is quite meaningless, "I trust that you shall be noting your thoughts down in English at some point?"

Rich smirks, "This is naught but my first draft: a form of writing at speed - I devised it while engaged at the Middle Temple. I am able to set down words almost at the speed at which they are spoken. Once I have finished, I shall set them down in a manner more suitable for your perusal." He bends over the paper and resumes writing - indicating to all and sundry that, in his mind, at least, Cromwell is dismissed.

 _I am not going to like this man,_ he thinks to himself as he returns to his own desk. Rich has one of the worst reputations at Court - probably even worse than his own. Cromwell is not blind to the enmity he inspires, nor is he unaware of the muttered names that people speak when they think his back is turned; but no one is more despised or distrusted than Richard Rich. Most consider the Chief Minister to have at least some degree of integrity lurking somewhere within him, despite his base-birth, but no one at all thinks the same of the former Solicitor General - for did he not perjure himself to bring down Thomas More? That he did so at Cromwell's behest is neither here nor there. The words were false, and he spoke them.

As he reaches for his quill, Cromwell knows that he should not feel enmity for the man who did only what was required of him - but his willingness to do it, and his failure afterwards to show even a flicker of remorse? _How can he not feel shame as I do?_

Finishing his notes, Rich reads back through them: crossing out some, amending others, adding to more. He prefers to draft in his speed-hand, as his thoughts rattle through his mind quickly, and he must write equally quickly if he wishes to capture them as they enter his head. Writing properly can come later; besides, it amuses him to leave all about him in the dark.

He cannot see Cromwell from where he sits; there is a stand of shelving in the way. Perhaps it is for the best, however, for he despises the Black Crow as a common-born upstart with more advancement than he deserves. Besides, it was Cromwell who set him against Thomas More, asking him to find some means of converting the King's fury at the man's refusal to swear the Oath of Supremacy into an act of real, or at least - _perceived_ to be real, treachery. He has not forgotten the look of contempt upon More's face; it frequently haunts him in his sleep.

Kat finds his dislike quite amusing; for, as she reminds him frequently, he is of Gentry stock and therefore only one step higher up the social ladder. As she is of equal standing to him, he is not offended by her words - but then, even if he were, her soft lips and touch quickly remedy all ills. In spite of himself, he cannot repress a slight smile. God - if only he had found her before his Father had demanded he wed Lisbet Jenks.

He sighs, and reaches for his quill to begin his transcription.

* * *

As all return to duty after the midday meal, Cromwell looks across to where Rich is still busily working. Given the exacting nature of his longhand, perhaps it is no surprise that the man is still transcribing, though the Chief Minister is quite intrigued at his new colleague's working methods.

He does not recall seeing Rich use that strange code before; but then, when they questioned the various men and women of Queen Anne's acquaintance - he pauses to shudder briefly at the memory - the work of note taking was undertaken by clerks. Had he known of it, then he might have risked offending the Solicitor General as-was with a request to minute the interrogations himself.

Brushing a few lingering crumbs of bread from the front of his doublet, Cromwell seats himself and sets another sheet of paper before him. He does not use vellum, for that is left to the scribes who produce the fair copies of the Acts to which the King's Grace appends his signature. Instead, as Rich did, he roughs out his thoughts upon rag paper, and his drafts are on the same material, albeit of better quality.

He intends to start assigning some of his team of Clerks, and various other resources, to the Court of Augmentations - but as Rich is yet to present him with any strategies or procedures for its operation, he cannot do so. Irked, he sets his quill back in its pot, and is about to stand, only to find that Rich appears to have finished, and is approaching his desk with a handful of papers.

Everything about the way that Rich moves speaks eloquently of his disgruntlement at having to play second fiddle to the King's Chief Minister. In a world where all should be guarded in their behaviour - as a protective measure if nothing else - Rich seems unable to keep his strongest feelings hidden. To Cromwell, who conceals his feelings so entirely that most think he has none at all, Rich's open expression is as easy to read as a book fresh from the new-fangled printing press. Maybe he should mention it - though not here; given the glower upon his face, Rich would almost certainly take offence. Cromwell is not particularly interested in sparking an argument. Not in front of the Clerks, at least.

Rather than take the papers and start reading them, leaving his colleague stuck in front of the desk like a schoolboy awaiting the master's approval, instead he invites Rich to fetch a chair, and has him sit down alongside. Reading the papers takes some time, as the notes prove to be extensive. He decides not to attempt conversation, as it is quite clear from Rich's face that any reciprocal words would need to be dragged from him with hooks.

At length, he looks up. Despite himself, Cromwell cannot help but admire the sheer attention to detail in the notes, and the consideration of the necessary governance for the operation of the Court. He knows from experience that Rich is sharp, quick minded and organised - and the papers prove it. Even though he would rather have worked with Medusa than the man seated to his left, he knows that he was right to appoint him.

Wriothesley has left his desk, and no Clerks are nearby, so Cromwell opts to risk a conversation that might draw attention, "I am well aware of our mutual history, Mr Rich," he says, "and I appreciate that we can hardly be considered to be the best of friends."

Rich nods, a little warily, but does not comment.

"I trust that we are both sufficiently professional to at least work together as colleagues, for our main concern is to deliver his Majesty's demands, and to do so without causing him annoyance or grief."

This time, Rich shrugs, "I shall do my work to the best of my ability, my Lord." His tone is dreadfully formal, "I could not countenance to act in any other manner."

Cromwell sighs, inwardly, "I shall withdraw and leave you to continue without further recourse to me." He advises, as Rich collects his papers and rises from the chair again, "For it is clear from your noted plans that there is no requirement to do so." _And I can get on with my own work without being obliged to deal with you._

From his expression as he departs, it is clear to Cromwell that Rich feels much the same about their new, enforced partnership. Too busy with his own business, he puts all thoughts of the Court of Augmentations, and its new Chancellor, firmly from his mind.

* * *

The lengthening shadows draw courtiers from all about towards the Hall, where supper is to be served. The highest born Lords might well sup in their private quarters, but for those who are not so well situated, the Hall is where people go to be, and be seen.

The King has chosen to sup in private this evening, with only the Lady Jane Seymour - and her brother - for company. The presence of the dour Edward is known by all to be nothing more than a ruse; a pretence on the part of the King that he has not removed his second wife to make way for his third-in-waiting. The Court wags comment, in the smallest of voices, that she cannot be that pure if she is in his quarters only a day after her predecessor has been removed; brother present or not.

Abandoning his papers in a locked coffer, Rich does not spare a moment to bid his fellow workers good evening. The Clerks are merely servants, Wriothesley is of no interest, and he would rather be trapped in ice than endure conversation with that damned Cromwell. Besides, once he has supped, his Kat shall be waiting for him.

Almost unconsciously, his expression softens at the thought of her. He has had mistresses before, and has four bastard brats to prove it, but none since he found her in the train of the Countess of Oxford. Like many of her station, she is required to maintain a certain degree of dress and dignity - but lacks the means to do so. There are plenty of such women about the Court, and thus do what they can to secure gifts from the men about them in order to support themselves. His previous women had indeed cost him a fair amount in jewels and presents - but they had more than earned their keep in return.

It is different with Kat, though; fair haired, blessed with almost depthless hazel eyes, and a glorious wit that amuses and challenges him in equal measure. Despite the illicit nature of their trysts, Kathryn Silverton has a warm wholesomeness about her that appeals to Rich at a level deeper than mere attraction. She has no other amours - for who would have a woman with her pocked face? She was beautiful once; of course - until smallpox winnowed its way through her family. She survived, the only child to do so, but it had robbed her of that comely countenance. She is fortunate in one respect, however, in that her intelligence and learning have recommended her to the Countess, who has brought her to court, and keeps her carefully veiled to avoid offending those who are so utterly devoted to the cult of beauty.

He changes his mind about supper, and instead returns to his quarters in the hope that she shall be there early. She rarely disappoints in that respect, and indeed she is seated by the fire in his most comfortable chair, her eyes upon the one person in the Court to whom she always shows her face in the secure knowledge that he will not look away. Despite the pocks, her smile is warm, for she has learned to trust him to a degree that no other does.

"How went the day?" she asks, with a deliberately coy tone that draws a reciprocal smile from him.

"Poorly, I think, my Kat." He admits, "It is not my wish to be about that black Raven Cromwell."

She indicates the table, where a light repast has been set out, "I hope you did not sup, Richie," She smiles, "Otherwise you would be obliged to sup again. For I should pout most heartily if you did not join me."

"Then I think I am most fortunate that I did not."

As they sup, however, his mood sours again, the raven spectre of Cromwell crowding into their tryst like an unwelcome third wheel.

"Why does he discomfit you so?" Kat asks him, "He is but a man in a chain of office."

Rich frowns, attempting to explain his feelings, "He is of base birth, Kat. Not like us - even though we be of Gentry stock rather than the true nobility. He has advanced himself far beyond the right of a man of his station, and that does not sit well with the natural order of things."

"I have little interest in the natural order of things." Kat sniffs, dismissively, "The natural order of things determined that a woman of my standing was no longer fit for a man of equal stock when the pox took my face and marked it with craters."

"Am I not of equal stock?" Rich asks, not entirely seriously.

"You are married." She reminds him, smiling a little wickedly, though he can hear the slight edge in her tone, "And thus, you do not count."

He reaches across to take her hand, "Had things been different, Kat…" he lets the sentence hang; she knows of his regret at their respective fates in the marital market. For a moment, their eyes lock, sharing a world of sadness and heartache at the chances that were not granted to them.

"Think not of Thomas Cromwell, Richie," Kat advises, gently, "You must work with him; and, though you like him not, there is no obligation upon you to claim that you do. The King demands your diligent service, and thus you should provide it. Did the King demand that, in accepting this post, you must become Cromwell's dearest friend?"

"God, no." Rich smirks, "I should rather have carved out my heart. Even though folk say I have none."

"You could not have carved it out, for it is safe in my keeping."

He grimaces, "Did you pay Thomas Wyatt for that?"

She pretends to pout, "It cost me a blue bird's song. I have been cheated."

Retiring to the fireside with the remains of the wine, they sit quietly and talk, banishing that black-clad ghost from their presence. _Is this how it should be with a wife_? Rich wonders, for he has never shared such times with Lisbet - their relations entirely perfunctory and expected for the procreation of children. Had he loved her once? Perhaps he did - but any regard he had for her has faded away as they have grown apart. He cannot blame her; she was as obliged to wed him as he was to wed her - arranged when they were both too young to resist the will of their families. He does not hate her; but then he does not love her either. That privilege, if privilege it be, belongs entirely to Kat. Instead, he ensures she is kept in an honourable state as befits the wife of a highly placed Courtier - and claims obligations at Court to keep him from her bed.

The wine finished, Kat settles herself upon his lap as he drowses in the chair. He can still taste claret as he kisses her, reaching up to remove the gabled English hood that hides her hair from him. He loves to caress her hair.

She breaks the kiss, "I love you."

For a moment, he gazes into her eyes. Even though he truly loves her in return, the words will not come; he cannot let that last barrier down, "I know you do."

She watches him for a moment, her eyes reading in his expression everything that he cannot bring himself to say, and smiles as he rises from the chair, lifting her in his arms, "Time for bed, my Lord?" she asks, coquettishly.

"Most definitely." He whispers in her ear.

* * *

Wriothesley busies himself with his work, maintaining the most solid façades of industriousness in the hopes that the Clerks will feel sufficiently intimidated by his ethic to ensure their own is as solid. He has lost count of the times he has found them speculating over how long it shall take the Chief Minister and the Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations to come to blows. One of them was even talking of taking wagers on the possibility of such an event.

In the three weeks that have passed since Sir Richard Rich arrived at his desk, there has been no thaw in that stiff formality that governs their dealings with one another, and they speak only if required to in the course of their work - whether it be the work of the new Court, or the business they discuss with the Privy Council. Naturally, such stiffness leads to comments being misconstrued, which thus leads further on to unnerving silences and comments of such frostiness and loaded meaning that even he, Wriothesley, is quite certain that a full argument might erupt. It never ceases to amaze him how two men who are so at odds with one another achieve anything at all.

If Rich knows of Wriothesley's opinions, he does not show it; for he, too, is busy. The bill that shall commence the closure of the large religious houses has not yet cleared Parliament, even though the King could - and quite possibly _would_ \- assent to it regardless if he considers himself to have waited too long. The smaller houses, however, are already closed, so the procedures to deal with their lands, properties and monies must be in place. Establishing them has required him to work far longer hours than he should have liked - largely to avoid the inevitable hard stare that Cromwell can unleash when so minded. Despite his dislike of the man, Rich is well aware of Cromwell's remarkable ability to intimidate others with nothing more than a slight change of expression. He has not, and shall never, make the mistake of underestimating the Chief Minister's intelligence and ability. The man, base-born though he is, is fiercely intelligent, and knows exactly how to reach into the innermost fears of those against whom he is set. Equally, however, Rich is not blind to the source of Cromwell's power: he has the favour of the King, and it is only from this that he can raise such fear of his ruthlessness. Without it - what would he be?

As he finishes reading the fair copy of the memorandum that formalises the operations of the Court of Augmentations, Rich nods to himself and charges his quill to sign it. Cromwell might be his superior in terms of the ongoing dissolution of the Religious Houses, but the Court of Augmentations is in his charge. Signing the sheet of vellum with a careful flourish, he scatters it with pounce to dry the ink, before shaking off the excess. For a while, at least, his work is done; the smaller houses have been mostly dealt with - so until the commissioners begin work at the larger houses, he is largely redundant.

Beyond the shelving, on the other hand, Cromwell is bent over papers that seem to have no end. He is still contemplating the possibility of appearing less competent in the hopes that people might stop thinking that no other but he can solve their problems; but then, he has worked to such an extent for much of his adult life, and he is quite certain that he could not live without that ever-present sense of endlessness. To stop would allow too much else to crowd in upon him. At least, under this burden, he has no time to address regrets, grief or remorse - the King does not need a man with such cares.

The afternoon requires them to attend the Privy Council, which places them both amongst those of much higher birth than they; men who wear their nobility like cloth-of-gold, and who resent the presence of lesser mortals. Even Rich does not escape; for he has nothing more than his knighthood to recommend him.

Norfolk has returned to Court recently: his relationship to the youth Fitzroy through marriage sufficient to overcome the Boleyn taint. As they enter, he eyes both Cromwell and Rich with loathing; no, not quite that - there is certainly dislike, but there is also a sense of nervous apprehension. He has found from experience that, with the favour of the King, Cromwell has power even over a man of his stature.

Ignoring the Duke's scrutiny, Cromwell takes his seat. He has no interest in vindictiveness or spite - it is another of the many things for which he simply does not have the time.

Seated opposite, a few chairs to the left, Rich is surprised at Cromwell's failure to take note of Norfolk's glare. He has noticed it - he must have done, for he misses nothing - but merely set it aside. He knows himself well enough to appreciate that he could not let such a threatening glance, even one that is tentative, leave him unaffected. He is most relieved that Norfolk reserves the bulk of his ire for the Chief Minister - even if that means that the Patriarch of the Howard clan views him of too little substance to consider. Sometimes it is safer to be obscure.

They rise to their feet and bow as the King arrives, Brandon alongside him. He is moving with vigour: clearly his leg is not troubling him today, as he can conceal the pain it brings him. Consequently, all at the table feel a sense of relief - for his temper is governed by his leg nowadays.

The meeting does not take long, for there is little of importance to discuss, and all are merely advising the King of progress on business already taking place. At least there is no longer talk of his marriage, for that took place a week and a half ago in the Chapel Royal; another reason for his considerably benign mood, perhaps.

Rising from the Table, the King accepts their bows, and marches out into the Presence Chamber, where he shall hold Court for the remainder of the afternoon prior to the feast over which he shall preside tonight to celebrate his bastard Son, who has been granted yet more lands and wealth. He is now second in richness only to his father, and has spent the recent weeks in a state of retreat from that demanding love, and in obedience to the delighted invitations to be present. Illegitimate he may be, but few now doubt that he shall be placed in the succession. Certainly Cromwell does not, for one of the many drafts upon his desk is one for a bill that will admit the youth to such a state.

Gathering his papers as swiftly as he can, for he does not wish to be seen leaving with the Chief Minister, Rich hastens out into the Presence Chamber, where the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber are gathering. He prefers to avoid these men, too, for he despises them even more than he despises Cromwell.

They call this group 'the King's Minions', for he has always had such men about him - men whose japes and light talk amuse him and remind him of a time when he, too, was young enough to enjoy such trifles. Most are men of little note - other than their abilities to ride and joust, or their skill at amusing the King. As this usually takes the form of comments at the expense of another courtier, which the King finds unpleasantly agreeable, they wear his favour upon them like chains of office, and none dare to challenge them.

"You're looking uncommonly pretty this day, my Lord." One of them, Sir Francis Bryan, pretends to simper, looking at his pale violet doublet and brown furred simarre with amused eyes as those about him snigger crudely. As he attempts to ignore the insult, and walks away, Rich hears the laugher bray more loudly. Bryan is probably chief amongst this pack of giggling hyaenas, for even the Minions usually prefer not to poke fun at the Privy Councillors, and he is the only one with the nerve to do so. With his fine garments and his eye patch - which conceals the ruin of his left eye - he truly looks to be an adventurer and rake; which he largely is.

"Perhaps a tiff, Sir Francis?" Another gentleman, Sir Edward Neville, asks, "And we thought that they were becoming so enamoured!"

"Ah, but who could love the frozen heart of the King's Minister?" Bryan chortles, "He is on a losing path, Sir Edward. And what of his crater-faced lover? Would she stand for two in her bed?"

"Imagine the chill," Neville grins back, "No bed warmer could ever combat it - it would freeze the sweat upon them as they tumbled!"

They laugh at the thought, and turn; the laughter dying in their throats, for Cromwell is standing behind them, and has clearly heard every word.

"Sir Francis," He says, amiably, "Sir Edward." He nods in greeting, and passes them by as though they had been discussing nothing more than the weather. His eyes, however, have narrowed, a sign that Bryan certainly has not missed. Cromwell knows full well that he is a source of spiteful amusement amongst the Minions, and sees no point in direct confrontation - the King would certainly find _that_ amusing. His back straight, his expression benign, Cromwell exudes dignity, and even as he watches the Chief Minister depart, Bryan cannot help but admire him for his calm demeanour. Much as they enjoy poking fun at the man, his endless failure to rise to it seems always to cause their jokes to fall flat.

Leaving the tiresome Gentlemen behind, Cromwell puts their stupidity from his mind and turns his thoughts to another of his endless tasks. The King has not said so openly, but Cromwell is not blind to the signals the King gives him - the feast tonight is a prompt not only to Fitzroy, but also to him, that the King demands that the youth be legitimised and admitted into the Succession. He cannot put off the work for much longer, despite the higher priorities fighting for his attention.

Sighing inwardly, he begins to re-order his plans in his head to accommodate the change, and returns to the offices.


	3. A Chamber Filled With Blood

CHAPTER THREE

 _A Chamber Filled with Blood_

Buried in papers, as always, Cromwell has cramped, inkstained fingers, and a rising bad mood. With the first phase of his work completed, Rich is largely underemployed at present; and, while that will certainly change when the work to dissolve the large monastic houses begins, his overstated boredom irks the pressed Minister a great deal. Why does he not offer to help? His legal background is extensive, his skill at interpreting the law undeniable - and yet he sits at his desk and scribbles on rough paper without aim. He has returned late from the midday dinner, too - and Cromwell can see from his slightly dishevelled state that he has spent those lost hours with his mistress again.

He has no such woman in his life; not now. His one illegitimate child had caused Liz so much hurt that he had never considered treating his marriage vows so lightly ever again. And then she had died, joining his two sweet daughters in God's care and leaving him behind with only Gregory to love. He cannot remember thinking at any point since those darkest of days that he would relish female company once more; but then, he seems not to have been able to get out of the habit of grieving. Instead, he wears it like a familiar cloak that encloses him and protects him to some degree even if its inside is coated with venomous thorns that occasionally draw blood and - every now and again - stab him to the deepest core of his soul. Besides, he thinks briskly to himself, when does he have the time for a woman these days?

While Rich might regard his attendance in the offices with disdain, he is not fool enough to do the same with the Privy Council, and they depart for the daily meeting together, yet apart. Neither say a word - though there is an almost tangible air of reproach on Cromwell's part, for he would appreciate assistance from Rich, who has nothing much to do, and receives nothing but carefully structured obliviousness.

Today's meeting is short again; for, with summer at its height, the Commons have returned to their boroughs, and any work that requires their debate is now in abeyance. As this includes the bill to legitimise Fitzroy and add him to the line of succession, that too shall have to wait - a matter that is not lost upon the King's Grace, who chafes to have an heir by whatever means possible. That Jane has not somehow become instantaneously pregnant through the mere act of exchanging wedding vows seems to have irked him all the more. Her continued failure to conceive after two whole months of marriage is leaving gossips muttering the dreadful word 'barren'; though all at the table who have sired children know well that nature does not always act with the speed that men demand. Needless to say, not so much of a fraction of the blame for this failure is the King's - and not even the bravest of the whisperers suggests that his seed might be faltering.

The warmth of the room, coupled with the growing stink of the King's suppurating wound, renders all present most eager to carry through business and escape. Henry's obvious discomfort serves to darken his mood further - and there is no one who thinks that they might depart the chamber without having seen his temper explode. They do not have to wait long.

"Christ's wounds!" Henry bellows, as Cromwell reports that yet another bill must await the return of Parliament to progress further, "What is the point of these burghers? Do they exist to serve me, or to serve their own interests?"

No one replies - none dare. The King, however, was asking only a rhetorical question, so he does not care, but instead continues, "I have a son that cannot succeed me, and still he is not served well! He is wedded, and soon, I have no doubt, shall provide me with grandchildren - and yet neither he nor they have their birthright settled upon them!"

Cromwell sits calmly; inscrutable as ever, while those about him show varied degrees of concern and sympathy; for they are not tasked with the responsibility of bringing this wish about. Rich's eyes narrow slightly as he watches Cromwell, waiting to see how the Chief Minister shall respond to this complaint; for respond he must.

"Majesty," he says, carefully, "The Commons are most keen to ensure the legitimacy of his grace the Duke of Richmond - and to bring him to his rightful estate. They are, however, equally determined to secure the rights and future of the Queen's issue, in the event that she bears you a son."

All know - even if the King will not believe it - that England would not accept a legitimised bastard as King if there is a legitimate Prince also in the line of succession. Everything hinges upon the Queen and her ability to bear children. If she brings a son into the world, and Fitzroy has been legitimised, where shall this leave that true-born babe? The potential strife and civil discord that could follow does not bear thinking about. It is for this reason that Cromwell has been attempting, as discreetly as he can, to delay the progress of the bill.

Henry glowers at Cromwell, his expression dangerous; but he does not react. The Chief Minister is right - and even the King cannot deny it. Jane might not yet be pregnant, but that does not mean that she shall not be in the future, and so all care must be taken to protect the rights of a full-blood prince over a half-blood one. It does not, however, mollify him - for he has all but promised Fitzroy that he shall be a prince of the Blood before the year is out.

The rest of the meeting passes without incident, other than the growing reek of that blasted leg. It is, of course, only to be expected in the heat of late July, but still it is horribly unpleasant, and all depart with relief as they can, at last, cover their noses with scented kerchiefs to remove the stench from their nostrils.

As he returns to the offices, it is soon apparent to Cromwell that Rich does not intend to join him there. As he would truly welcome some additional legal experience with a set of highly complex clauses in one of the draft bills he has awaiting him, he is not pleased.

"Get Whorwood to do it." Rich advises, crossly, "It's his job now, not mine."

"He has his own work to do, Mr Rich." Cromwell snaps back, "I am not aware that you are overly employed at this point in time."

Rich has promised himself some time with Kat, and has no interest in Cromwell's bothering, "I have other plans."

"And what would those plans be, given that they take you away from your place of work?" Cromwell asks, rather pointlessly, for it is not as though Rich is under any obligation to be present in the offices as he has no formalised working hours.

"Those plans would be none of your damned business, my Lord."

"Ah." Cromwell's eyes narrow, that single word loaded with meaning.

"I might be obliged to work with you, _my Lord_ ," Rich hisses back, furiously, "but that does not mean that I am beholden to you for my every move. I am not a schoolboy, and you are not a schoolmaster. My plans for the rest of the day are my own affair."

 _In every sense of the word_. Cromwell thinks, but is not petty enough to speak the words aloud, "I have no interest in the _minutiae_ of your intentions, Mr Rich." he says, as annoyed as his colleague, "I am, however, not overly well disposed to such dereliction of duty. You serve the King - and thus I expect you to do so. Your absences from the offices have not gone unnoticed." He does not insert _to_ _tumble with_ _your mistress_ \- much as he wishes to.

"Very well then," Rich growls, "If it please you, my Lord, henceforth, I shall sign a book to note the time of my arrival, and again to note the time of my departure. Thus you can watch over my every move without the annoyance of interrogating me to my face."

Cromwell becomes aware that they have drawn something of an audience, many of whom are quite enjoying the contretemps. He swore he wouldn't do this - but he has reached such a point of annoyance with Rich that he has failed to live up to that intention. Rich is glaring at him, and he knows that he is glaring back. It all seems so petty and stupid…

"My Lord," another voice interrupts, and he turns to see the Palace Constable. His face is pale, and a little grey tinged; his eyes rather wide, "Forgive my intrusion."

 _Given how ridiculous we were starting to look, Constable,_ Cromwell thinks, _I not only forgive the intrusion, I welcome it,_ "There is nothing to forgive. What is the issue that you wish to report to me?"

He swallows rather hard, as though attempting to stop his gorge from rising, "We have found a body."

* * *

Cromwell frowns, "A body? Forgive me, Constable - but is this not within your jurisdiction? Why have you brought the matter to me?"

"Ordinarily, I would agree with you, my Lord," the Constable agrees, "but in this case, I fear, I felt I had to bring the matter to you. It is…" he pauses, and swallows again, "…it has been found in a most unpleasant aspect, and thus I consider it important that you should be aware of it."

 _And again_. Cromwell thinks to himself, _The problem has been made mine_.

As though he has the bloody time to be dealing with a death. Just as well he has someone under his command who is not currently short of it, "Mr Rich."

"What?" Rich asks, rather rude in his uncertainty.

"Fetch paper, quill and ink from the offices. I require your assistance."

 _Not a chance in hell_. "Mine? Might I ask why?"

"You may: no other is able to make notes at the speed words are spoken as you are, and I suspect that skill shall be needed in this instance. Thus I require your assistance and you are clearly available to assist me. Please fetch paper, quill and ink."

In an instant, Rich regrets his smug display when he first arrived in the offices. With all around him expecting him to do as bid, he does not feel brave enough to defy Cromwell, and instead nods crossly, before turning on his heel to fetch the demanded items. He also adds a board so that he shall have something to rest on as he writes. It is clear that this is why Cromwell has demanded his services.

When he returns, Cromwell and the Constable are conversing, and the Chief Minister looks most grim. As he joins them, the Constable turns to him, "Forgive me, my Lord, but I think it important that you also be aware. The corpse is in a most grotesque condition - for it has lain undiscovered for several days. It was the stink of putrefaction that brought it to the attention of a guard - and thus was discovered."

Rich does not see it, but he feels the blood draining from his face, "In that case, my Lord," he turns to Cromwell, and holds out the board, paper, quill and ink pot, "I request to be excused from this incident." He most certainly does not want to be in the presence of a stinking corpse.

Cromwell's eyes narrow, and Rich chills inside, "Your request is refused, Mr Rich. I require your ability to write at speed; nothing more. Thus, your presence is necessary."

 _And what if I don't want to be present?_ "As you wish, my Lord." Bravery is not Rich's strong suit.

The Constable waits for them to finish their rather barbed conversation, and then sighs with relief as Cromwell nods at him to proceed, "This way, my Lords - but, I must warn you, it is a most barbarous sight: the victim has been mutilated."

He continues to warn as they go and, as they reach the corridor into which the chambers open, the reek becomes apparent - though it is mitigated by the open colonnade on the opposite side to the chambers. One of the palace guards, his face a ghastly grey-white, is standing at the entry, keeping people away - for all can smell that foul odour. It grows stronger as they approach a single door, and then the Constable opens it.

Cromwell's eyes widen, and his face goes ashen; when he speaks, his voice is a faint whisper: "Christ have mercy." For nothing. Nothing at all. Not even his time as a mercenary soldier, has prepared him for this.

* * *

The Chamber is one of lesser aspect, forming only a bedchamber with a small sitting area and fireplace to one side. The quarters for those of lower rank are all set in similar fashion - which has served only to emphasise the sheer degree of slaughter that exists within.

The stench of death and corruption is one that Cromwell has not experienced for many years - being the charnel house stink of a house full of wounded in the height of summer. In spite of himself, he must force himself to swallow down his nausea, and prevails upon himself to maintain his inscrutable aspect. It would not do for his composure to falter - not with the Constable watching him so intently. The man thinks him to be as free from humanity as a statue. When he speaks, it is in a firm, calm voice, "Fetch Doctor Butts, please."

Relieved to have an excuse to depart - even if only for a short while - the Constable turns and leaves. Beyond, Cromwell can see that Rich has hurriedly abandoned his secretarial equipment, and is slumped over the balustrade, his body heaving violently as he vomits into the flowerbed beyond. Unlike Cromwell, he has never truly seen death in its bloodiest aspect; and that inexperience has left him without the strong stomach that the Chief Minister is currently relying upon to retain his dignity. Sympathetic, he joins Rich and rests a hand upon his shoulder as he heaves yet again.

"God have mercy…" Rich gulps, faintly, "Christ above - what manner of creature could do that?" in his revulsion, he seems almost to have forgotten that he is supposed to regard the man beside him with intense dislike.

"I think, Mr Rich," Cromwell sighs, "we have been tasked with finding out; or, at least, once the Doctor has confirmed what seems obvious to me, the King shall demand that we do so."

"Not me, my Lord." Rich whispers, "I cannot be here - not with that…" he retches again, but this time nothing emerges to splatter the earth below.

"Believe me, Mr Rich." Cromwell continues, not without sympathy, "If I could release you from this duty, then I would do so - but I require your ability to note at speed. The state of that chamber suggests that accuracy of recording evidence shall be essential to our success in finding a perpetrator - and thus I need someone who can note down words as they are spoken; and none can do so but you." He pats Rich's shoulder again, "Remain here awhile in the breeze until Doctor Butts arrives. I shall call you when we need your assistance - we do not need you to enter the room."

Rich does not speak, but instead nods. Leaving him where he is, Cromwell turns back, and stands in the doorway, forcing himself to view the carnage beyond with detachment.

From the clothing, though split from décolletage to hem, the corpse is that of a woman - her identity no longer apparent, for her face has been disfigured with the savage application of a knife. Her torso and abdomen have been turned into a red-spattered hollow: gutted like a fresh-slaughtered hog, the organs and matter cast about the chamber, ground into the one limited stretch of woollen carpet or slathered about the wooden floor. Except for one: small, shrivelled and almost dried out from exposure to the air…

 _What is that_?

He does not venture inside - partly for the sake of his shoes as not all of the substances within have dried, but mostly for fear of disturbing anything that might help them to understand who turned a woman into a mess of blood and gore. The walls are sprayed with iron-smelling brown streaks, but much of the room is undisturbed. Did she not struggle? Why not? Cromwell is at a loss. Sighing, he turns back to Rich, who is still leaning as far out over the balustrade as he can, attempting to avoid the hideous reek of the befouled chamber. Despite his dislike of the man, Cromwell feels sympathy. Rich has no desire to be here; no wish to be caught up in this vile crime - and he has no idea what one man can do to the body of another. Doubtless not the education he had in mind when he first came to Court. Needs must, however. He is available to help, and so he must. Whether he wants to or not.

* * *

Doctor Butts arrives with a swift stride, carrying a leather satchel with him while the Constable trails reluctantly in his wake, "And so we meet again, my Lord." He says, briskly, "It appears that we must be obliged to deal with one another over corpses." He pauses, and sniffs a few times, "Though, in this case, I suspect that I shall have a harder time than I did upon the Privy Bridge."

In spite of the ghastly sight of the chamber, Butts sets down his satchel to tend first to Rich, who is looking almost ready to faint, fetching out a bottle of something, and a cup, and directing his impromptu patient to wash out his mouth, "If I am to understand, you are to maintain a record of our investigation, my Lord. I consider it better that you are able to concentrate without the taste of vomit in your mouth." He nods approvingly as Rich takes a gulp and starts to swill it about his mouth, "I would advise you not to swallow it, though."

Rich stops, mid-swill.

Joining Cromwell at the door, Butts stares at the horror within the chamber, but does not show any other reaction, "This is quite shocking." He says - completely detached.

Cromwell nods, "I have not seen the like since my days as a soldier."

"When Mr Rich is ready to make the appropriate notes," Butts observes, as he looks back to see Rich leaning over the balustrade again - apparently intent on spitting out every last possible drop of the liquid, "I shall begin."

While he waits, he removes a ball of string, knotted at intervals, and dons a pair of gauntlets, "I should advise you to obtain a pair if you wish to handle anything in this room, my Lord. Given the spread of digestive matter, I also think it might be wise to cover your mouth and nose to avoid risk of contagion - there might be foul humours lurking in the air beyond."

Cromwell stares at him, his eyes widening in mild disgust. Rather than prevail upon one of the guards for gloves, however, he dispatches one to his quarters to seek a pair from his manservant - and also a kerchief, preferably one with some scent upon it.

"Your initial impressions, Doctor?" he asks, as they wait.

"How obvious would you like me to be?" Butts retorts, with a mild smile, "It is clear that this poor woman has been slaughtered with almost insane abandon - but if we are to identify a perpetrator, we must set all preconceptions aside and learn as best we can what she shall try to tell us with her mortal remains."

Cromwell nods, then turns back to Rich, who is trying to gather together his equipment again, though he looks as pale as everyone else, "Perhaps a chair might be of use to you in order to write comfortably?" He asks. He knows that the offer of a chair in any other circumstance would cause offence - for Rich has been made to look weak enough as it is and almost certainly has no wish to be made to look weaker still.

Still too nauseous to speak, Rich nods, though his expressive face is clearly displaying his relief and - to a small degree, at least - gratitude. He could not be making it clearer to Cromwell that he wants, more than anything, not to be here. As Cromwell feels very much the same, he cannot blame him, and summons one of the other guards, "Kindly fetch a chair for Sir Richard - if you can find something upon which he can rest papers and his ink pot, that would also be most useful."

The furniture arrives before the gloves and kerchief, so Rich is seated - as far from the chamber as he can be while still remaining in earshot - when the guard arrives. Donning the gloves, and tying the folded kerchief across his face to cover his mouth and nose, Cromwell nods to Butts, and the pair turn to the chamber beyond.

"The room is quite remarkably undisturbed," Butts begins, "I cannot see any sign of a violent struggle, for the furniture is righted, and shows no sign of having been toppled." He unravels the string gradually, "The string is knotted at intervals of one foot, my Lord, so we can gain some degree of accuracy in our measurements."

Carefully, Butts examines a streak of brown across a wall, "Dry blood, I think, my Lord." He advises, "This would certainly have been deposited before death, for it has not been set here deliberately. Instead, I suspect it must have come from her as she lived - possibly from the large vessels in her neck or arms."

Cromwell nods. He has seen for himself how blood can be almost fired from wounds at certain points on the body - indeed, he can remember a butcher of his acquaintance who cut a similar vessel in his own thigh - and was dead in less than ten minutes thanks to a torrent of blood flow that could not be staunched. He had not seen the incident, but those who had told of a spurting fountain of red.

"I take it that such a wound would have been most likely to have caused her demise, then?"

"I should agree with that, my Lord. I was helpless against such a wound upon the tiltyard not a year ago when a splinter reached into an armour joint."

"And thus the evisceration was post-mortem?"

"That is impossible to say. I think, however, it is safe to be assured that she would not have been conscious when it occurred. The damage to her body is such that I think it would have caused her blood to exit to a degree that the blood spurts on the walls would not have been made. Based upon my measurements - assuming she has not been moved into the position in which she lies - the spray must have been some three feet - and certainly no less than two."

"And what of her lower abdomen?" Cromwell asks, indicating the odd organ beside the corpse.

Butts crouches to examine the object, "It is the womb, I think - though its condition is very poor and it has shrivelled somewhat. It appears to have been most carefully excised - which is odd, as the rest of the body has been attacked with astonishing savagery." He pauses, "Forgive me, my Lord. I must make certain."

This time, however, Cromwell does not avert his eyes as Butts carefully parts the thighs of the corpse to examine her most secret place. As he pulls away, he sighs, "If she did not receive carnal attentions from her killer, then she had done so only a short time prior." He advises, "There is evidence of a man's seed."

"Do you think she did so willingly?" Cromwell asks, tiredly.

"That, I am afraid, I cannot tell at this point; I shall have to examine her more thoroughly. I think, despite all, that I shall carry out a more suitable post-mortem. Based upon my initial observations, I cannot say with certainty when she died, for the hot weather has worked against us. This is a most hideous crime, and the more that I know, the more that I can report to you - and the more chance we have of finding the individual, or individuals, who carried it out."

"Individuals?" Cromwell asks.

"Look about you." Butts advises, and Cromwell looks down.

"I did not see it." He says, and curses. The ghastly mess upon the floor has captured footprints - but which are those of the perpetrator, and which are theirs, he cannot say.

"Do not concern yourself." Butts says, "I have already found some in one part of the chamber where we have not walked. There are a number of prints in both blood and digestive matter."

Standing again, Butts begins to take measurements, and calls out distances as he does so. Seated outside, Rich has - as asked - carefully, albeit with the occasional retch, noted down the discussions _verbatim_. He completes his notes with the measurements dictated by Butts. As the doctor falls silent, he sits back and groans to himself, wishing he could leave. His gaze drops to the floor, and he loses himself for a moment in the intricacies of the patterns on the flagstones, and wishing he could be losing himself in the warmth of Kat's embrace. He looks up again as Butts and Cromwell emerge, their faces half obscured by the kerchiefs they have used, before returning his gaze to the floor.

Then he frowns. As they step from the room, they are leaving footprints. While the blood has dried, the other substances are less hardened, and some has been tracked out on their shoes. And yet, the flags are otherwise clean. If so much mess was made, how is it that none remains outside, even captured in the joints? If it had been, then perhaps the victim might have been found sooner…or something…he closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe slowly - and through his mouth - as his gorge rises again.

Unwilling to speak, for fear that he might puke, Rich instead carefully notes his thoughts down with his other scribbles. He can raise it tomorrow once he has transcribed them. He has no intention of doing that tonight.

"I shall arrange for the corpse to be transferred to a cool cellar," Butts advises, quietly, "If you could arrange for the room to be cleaned - since we have no additional investigations to undertake within it?"

Cromwell nods, "We shall convene on the morrow to discuss our findings."

"This woman was murdered, Gentlemen." Butts says, quietly, "I have no fear of being wrong in such statement - and her death was cruel. I think it important that we find the one who did this - and quickly. She deserves nothing less."

"I heartily agree." Cromwell replies, "I, for one, do not wish to come across something so ghastly again."


	4. Only the Devil

CHAPTER FOUR

 _Only the Devil_

Kat is sleeping the following morning as Rich wakes, dark dreams of blood and death still clearing away as he opens his eyes in an early dawn light that he is more grateful to see than he could have imagined. Thank God she was still waiting for him when he returned to his quarters last night; how on earth Cromwell could remain so detached after all that they witnessed, he does not know. Kat is warm, soft and close - all that he needed after last night's hideous hours in the presence of that vile corpse.

He wants to talk to her - as he did last night; probably far more than she would have wanted him to. He shall not wake her - she looks so peaceful - instead he watches over her, waiting for her to wake. He enjoys watching her wake as much as he likes to fondle her hair.

They say little as they break their fast together. They do not need to, for they are utterly at ease in each other's presence. Instead, she kisses him lightly before she departs early. It does not do to be seen leaving a lover's quarters in the morning, after all. People gossip about him quite enough as it is, and Kat has no wish to add ammunition to their chatter.

Sitting alone at the table, Rich attempts not to think about the task ahead. Today, he must transcribe the notes that he took, and he would very much rather not. If he does not, however, then what shall Cromwell and Butts have to consider as they discuss their investigation? God, if only he had been somewhere else yesterday when the Constable turned up…

He is startled by a knock upon the door to his chambers, and stands as his Manservant opens the door to admit Cromwell. He frowns, for what reason would the Chief Minister have to call upon him? They can discuss last night's events quite conveniently in the offices.

Taking a seat by the fire, Cromwell turns to Rich and indicates the other chair. Warily, Rich joins him.

"Are you well this morning?" Cromwell asks, his tone sincere, "I can only ask that you forgive me for placing you in such an unpleasant position yesterday eve."

"As you said," he answers, a little resentfully, "There was no other who could have made a suitable record of your investigative activities."

"Perhaps; but nonetheless, it was presumptuous of me, and I am sorry." Cromwell sighs, then continues, "I am afraid, however, that I cannot release you from the obligation, for the King has now charged us with the investigation, so I need you to continue with me."

Rich sighs, and closes his eyes. He had hoped that this would not be so - but, deep inside, he knew that it would. The King had forced them together - in all ignorance, admittedly - when he demanded the investigation into Anne Boleyn, and now he has done the same again. Has he forgotten that William Whorwood is now the Solicitor General?

"I do not consider it proper that we continue our investigation in the office chambers, Mr Rich." Cromwell continues, "I have, therefore, secured a hitherto unused chamber nearby for that purpose. If you are ready to depart, we can make it ready for use while Doctor Butts undertakes his work. We should then be prepared for him to bring us his conclusions."

As Rich nods, and rises from his chair to fetch his simarre, Cromwell sighs in his turn. Rich is miserable - it is all but written upon his face - and Cromwell can understand why, for he feels much the same. Until last night, the Court was a dangerous place, but only for political reasons. Now, however, there seems to be a dark toxicity about it that was not present yesterday morning. Someone in the Palace has acted with such appalling depravity that even his worst activities seem to take on an altogether more benign aspect.

They walk together - but apart - as always. A few turns short of the door that leads into the office chambers, Cromwell stops and unlocks a heavy wooden door, leading Rich into the room that he has set aside for their unwanted extra work. It is a large chamber, unregarded and unused for some years. Unbeknownst to Rich, he has already identified additional spaces in the other palaces, for it can never be guaranteed that they shall remain in one place for a predetermined time. He is still surprised that they have not yet moved to Hampton Court.

Unlike much of the rest of the palace, this part of the complex is older, and thus the walls are formed from plastered wattle. He has secured a large table, and a number of chairs; some coffers and a large dresser with long shelves that now stand against one of the shorter walls. If they must move, then they can easily pack the papers and add them to those that must be transported from the main offices.

His expression sour again, Rich seats himself at the table, where he finds an inkhorn, pounce pot, knives and a number of quills - both swan and goose - have been set in preparation. The ink is still in a bottle, while the papers are wrapped in hessian to keep dust at bay. Taking the knife, and a quill, he notes that it has been sufficiently hardened, and makes short work of sharpening it into a nib to his preference, "I shall endeavour to prepare the notes in their entirety before Doctor Butts arrives." He advises, "Though I cannot be certain that he shall not finish before I do."

Cromwell nods, "I shall be in the offices if you require me. I have asked Doctor Butts to report here rather than to the offices. Send for me when he arrives."

For a moment, as he looks at this notes, Rich almost wants Cromwell not to leave; consumed by a sense of tense nervousness at the horror his scrivenings contain. Irked with himself, he pours out some ink into the inkhorn, charges his quill and begins to re-read the code, hoping that it shall not make him sick again.

* * *

Rich is still at work when Butts arrives. The Doctor has spent a thoroughly unpleasant morning assessing that which he had already fathomed from his initial examination; but he has had no intention of missing anything that might be of use. Instead, he feels that he need not have bothered - for the woman has told him no more than she did last night. He does not even know who she is.

They nod to one another, and Rich leans out into the corridor to seek out a passing steward to summon Cromwell to the chamber. As he returns to his seat, Butts lifts the first of his transcriptions, and reads, pursing his lips and frowning. The notes are, as expected, accurate - carefully scribed in Rich's fine longhand. Despite their look, however, they do not make pleasant reading.

Cromwell is soon with them, and has been undertaking additional research of his own, "From the location of the rooms, I believe it likely that the victim was Miss Anne Hamme." He advises, "She was part of the retinue of the Countess of Derby, though of lesser wealth, and not well supported by family or her Mistress."

"You cannot be certain of that, my Lord." Butts says, quietly, "She was quite brutally disfigured."

"Indeed," Cromwell concedes, "but we have a starting point, and it is possible to confirm through a process of elimination. If we cannot find her living, then we can be reasonably confident that the corpse is she. What have you been able to ascertain?"

Butts pulls some papers from a portfolio, "I have made written notes," He says, "I have not been able to identify the type of weapon that was used, I fear. I can say with certainty, however, that it was extremely sharp, as the incisions were clean-edged. Suffice to say, her death was caused primarily by the loss of blood, I think. There is no other explanation for the blood upon the walls, for it was not painted there. I suspect that one of the main blood vessels in her body was opened, and thus this spurted the blood across the room - for I have seen it happen in other circumstances."

Despite himself, Rich gags, and hastily sets a kerchief to his mouth, "Sorry." He mumbles.

"I found also that she had indeed been forcibly penetrated; though I could not further ascertain whether the actions against her person took place before or after death." Butts concedes, "I consider it reasonable to assume that the wounding took place after the vein was opened. I did find an incision upon her neck which would appear to be the source of the spray."

"And the excised organ?" Cromwell prompts.

"From the state of the lower abdomen, and the position in which the organ was left, I am content to state categorically that it was her womb. Though I am at a loss as to why it was removed as it was when all else was largely destroyed. I cannot think of any motive for such a savage assault; I can only assume that it was a random act of brutality."

"Then why was there nothing outside the room?" Rich asks.

Cromwell and Butts turn to him, bemused.

"While you spoke of blood and other matter all over the floor - and not all of it soaked into carpets, for there was some upon the floorboards was there not?" he stops, swallows firmly, then continues, "Why was there no evidence of it outside the room? An act of random violence it might have been - but to leave the outside of the chamber so pristine when all within was so befouled? Does that not strike you as strange?"

Butts looks at Cromwell, who returns his somewhat embarrassed gaze, "I had not thought of that." He admits, "The room was so thoroughly bloody - but it did not occur to me that it would have covered the perpetrator as much as it did the walls and floor. How is it that none of it was found outside? Such foulness would have required great care to remove so thoroughly…"

"And yet there was nothing." Rich prompts.

"Then the killing was not random." Butts says, shocked, "The perpetrator _planned_ it. They must have had - at the very least - clean shoes in which to depart."

"Not merely clean shoes." Cromwell disagrees, "If he was as coated in blood as the room about him, then surely he must have needed to change his clothing, too?"

They exchange worried glances. Shocking though a random act might be - a planned one is far, far worse.

* * *

Setting his notes aside, Rich tidies up the quills and empties his unused ink back into the bottle before wiping out the inkhorn. He does not intend to come back here for the rest of the day if he can avoid it, and would very much prefer not to come back at all. The entire affair seems to have taken a detour into darker places than he wishes to imagine, and he wonders what on earth the unfortunate woman did to inspire such brutality. He cannot accept that she deserved it; no one could deserve… _that_.

Butts has returned to his more conventional duties, while Cromwell has returned to the offices - for the time being, at least. Scribbling away at some notes he has made on the ever present issue of legitimising 'the Prince' as the King insists Fitzroy must now be addressed, he tries to put thoughts of the death aside, but finds that he cannot.

Being firmly politically engaged, he has no involvement with the machinations of the women at court - for they plot and politic as much as the men do - albeit on less precipitous matters. In what way has Anne Hamme offended someone? And how on earth has her offence - if there even _be_ one - driven someone to wreak such cruelty upon her? His late, beloved Liz taught him very early on in their marriage that a woman is more than mere property, or a means to propagate the family line. She had disabused him of such notions almost as soon as they shared the marital bed for the first time; she was intelligent, and capable, and would not, under any circumstances, accept condescension from him, or from his 'male intellect'. Consequently, he does not entirely share the overall view of women as lesser beings - for to do so would, in his mind at least, place his dearest Liz in that same category, and she was anything but a lesser being.

He sighs to himself. It has been a long time since he thought of her - for he does so only rarely these days. Despite the passage of years, to think of her still brings him pain, so he prefers to not think of her rather than endure the discomfort of her loss. She is ever present - yet is held aside for fear of the storm of grief she might inspire.

The King has opted not to hold a meeting of the Council this afternoon, so Cromwell is free to either continue with his drafting, or perhaps make some first inroads into the investigation that he knows he must begin before the inevitable rumours spiral out of control. Like all enclosed communities, the Palace is a place of fomenting nonsense of all kinds. He well remembers the idiotic stories that travelled all about the court after the King's tantrum over the non-appearance of Anne's executioner. It had been a most uncomfortable experience for him, for he had been held almost at knifepoint; but the tales that had travelled about the Court afterwards had adopted an almost grandiose ridiculousness. Apparently, in some quarters - until he had shown his face to disprove it - the King had actually stabbed out one of his eyes, while in others he had slashed an 'A' into his cheek.

Doubtless some clouds of rubbish have already started to waft about. The sooner he begins his work to establish the truth - if he can - the better. For a moment, he considers not asking Rich to assist him - despite his highly useful ability to make such accurate and _verbatim_ notes - then realises that he must. Regardless of his obvious distaste for the entire business, Rich would be even more affronted at being left out of the work that it entails. Cromwell has rarely come across someone so easily offended - and often for the most obscure and unexpected reasons.

Rising from his desk, he looks around the shelves and realises that Rich has not returned to the offices. Concerned, he visits the chamber in which they have left their notes. He is not there, either. Cromwell sighs, inwardly: based on what he knows of his colleague, he can guess where Rich has gone.

 _Do I disturb him or not?_ He thinks, concerned that he might find them engaged in activities of an entirely private nature. That said, however, his mistress - Kathryn, if he recalls correctly - might have insights that they lack. Best to risk embarrassing all three of them in the hopes that he can secure her assistance in their investigations.

Standing at the door to Rich's quarters, he pauses for a moment, fighting with himself not to put his ear to the door. The last thing he wishes to do is interrupt them… _just knock, you idiot._ Hoping for the best, he raps smartly upon the wood.

He is most relieved at the speed with which the door opens, and he finds that his colleague is not overly dishevelled, though his doublet is open at the throat. He is, naturally, not impressed to see Cromwell standing before him.

"Forgive my intrusion." Cromwell's contrition is sincere, "Is Mistress… _Miss_ …Silverton with you?"

Rich looks pained. Of course she is. Standing aside, he indicates that Cromwell should enter.

She is seated in a chair near the fireplace, though there is no fire in the July heat. Her face is averted, and she does not turn to look at him, "Mr Cromwell?" she asks.

"Ma'am." He answers, bowing formally, "Forgive me - I would not have intruded; but I hope that you might be able to assist us."

"Us?" Rich asks, standing behind him.

"Have you not spoken to her of our activities last night?" Cromwell asks him, pointedly. He is not surprised when Rich looks slightly sheepish.

"In what way might I be of assistance to you?" Kat asks, her face still turned towards the empty fireplace. His eyes rather hostile, Rich crosses to join her, and rests a hand on her shoulder. At once, her hand rises to rest upon his.

"You have access to information that we cannot hope to obtain, Miss Silverton." Cromwell says, quietly, "It is my hope that you might have heard rumours or suggestions amongst the female courtiers."

Then, slowly, she turns to look at him, and he sees for the first time the dreadful damage that smallpox has wrought upon her. Silently, he holds her gaze, and will not look away as she speaks, with some bitterness, "And what makes you think that I am able to overhear rumours and innuendo that might be of use to you? I am considered a cursed creature - I travel between her Grace's quarters, and my lover's. There are few other places where I am welcome."

"I know that you are a woman of great strength, and courage." He says, simply, "For how else could you remain in a poisoned ant's nest such as this?"

"I have my reasons." She replies, her grip tightening almost, but not quite, imperceptibly upon Rich's hand.

Cromwell smiles, and bows to her with the formality granted to a woman of the highest station, "I am given to understand that you have a quick wit and are well learned, Ma'am. For that reason, I believe you know far more of what happens within these precincts than you are willing to divulge."

For a long time, she holds his gaze - almost daring him to look away from her ravaged face. He has seen worse than this, however. Only last night, he saw worse than this - for amidst the pitted craters in her skin, two eyes look out - depthless orbs of hazel that seem almost to reach out to capture the soul. Her beauty now lies only within; how bizarre that a man as superficial as Rich has discovered it.

"There are rumours." She says, eventually, "But then, there are always rumours. Naturally, they are ridiculous and become more so with each passing hour."

He is not surprised to hear this, "I take it people think that only the Devil could show such depravity, and has taken it upon himself to walk among us?"

"That, yes - but others are claiming that it is Anne Boleyn - risen from the grave to take her revenge."

"I see what you mean by 'ridiculous'." Cromwell smiles and takes a seat, "Perhaps I should view such nonsense with scorn - but why grant it such energy?"

"We think the victim might have been one of the Countess of Derby's retinue." Rich advises, since it is clear that Cromwell has no intention of leaving them alone, "From the quarters in which she was found, probably Anne Hamme."

Kat nods, "Perhaps that is so. One of her closer friends - Emma Wright - has been asking us if we have seen her these two days past. She thought perhaps that Anne might have run away, for she was involved in a violent argument with one of her amours, though Emma did not enlighten us as to his identity."

"What do you know of her?" Cromwell asks, indicating to Rich that he should be prepared to make notes. At first, he glares back, not wishing to leave Kat's side.

"It's alright, Richie." She says, softly, "If I can be helpful, then I wish to be so."

 _Richie_? Cromwell blinks. He has never associated this man with a pet-name.

Like all office-men, Rich is not without the means to write, or a medium upon which to set down words, and he is soon at the table, as close as he can still be to Kat, and waits, loaded quill in hand.

"Anne has… _had_ …something of a reputation for flightiness," Kat begins, "None of us have ever held it against her, for she is… _was_ a sweet natured girl."

"Girl?" Cromwell prompts.

"Yes - she was but sixteen. As I understand it, she was born into a large family, with more children than funds to support them. Such is the burden of nobility, it seems."

"I have no knowledge of nobility." Cromwell advises her, sagely.

"Then you are fortunate, I think." She smiles back, sharply, "As with all children of her station, she was dispatched into another household to be brought up and educated to a level appropriate to her birth. Equally, like many such children, she learned nothing of the kind - or at least it did not seem so, for she was largely illiterate, had dreadful manners and knew only how to flirt. Though she was quite remarkably romantic in nature." Briefly, Kat smiles, "And she was one of the few women about me who showed no ill nature towards me." She pauses, and exchanges a glance with Rich, who returns it with that same openness that reveals all that he is thinking.

Turning back to Cromwell, she resumes, "They had hoped that she might make a place for herself amongst the Queen's ladies - but her manners were so poorly schooled that this turned out not to be possible. She was placed with the Countess in the hopes that it was not too late to turn things about." Then she sighs, "I know no more than that, I am afraid, my Lord."

"It is more than we knew when I arrived, Ma'am." Cromwell says, "Thank you. I hope you do not mind if I ask you to keep your ears open to gossip, and rumour? For we have no access to the world of women in this Court, and thus we are blind to evidence that might be available from half of those present to obtain it for us."

"Do you think I might be of use?" she asks, her hopes that she might be written vividly across her ravaged face. Cromwell watches her with real sadness - she has been so utterly crushed by her circumstances that even something so small would be a service of which she would be proud.

Again, Rich rises from his place at the table, and his hand is upon her shoulder once more. Even as he does so, his face is speaking louder than words would, _Don't even think about hurting her. Don't dare to, or I swear to God I shall make you pay for it._

Ignoring the glare, Cromwell leans forward, and takes one of Kat's hands, "Yes. I do. I do not ask you to speak to others, or to ask questions. Merely to watch, and listen - for your unregarded state is now your strongest weapon, and one that shall be of the greatest help to us. We shall deal with the questioning, for that is a burden I would not place upon you. Most are likely to refuse even to talk to us, and I suspect that we have learned more this day from you than we shall learn from a hundred courtiers."

He does not ask Rich to come with him as he takes his leave - for he knows it is likely that Kat shall need his comfort and reassurance. Instead, he makes his way to the Hall, where he intends to put his theory into practice. He needs no more than twenty minutes to find that he was right.

"Why should I talk to you about such a matter?" even being a fellow Privy Councillor seems not to make a difference.

"You have no jurisdiction!" No surprise there. He is talking to an Earl.

"And what does the death of a whore have to do with me?" God above, even the Minions have no interest.

It is at moments like this that Cromwell's base-birth and despised rise truly tell against him; for none respect his position. While, ordinarily, such disrespect would not concern him; this outright hostility is not helpful to his investigation. Perhaps Rich might do better - but he does not think it likely. Rich is of Gentry stock, and thus only one step higher than himself. Not only that, who trusts him? Indeed, until today, when he had seen Rich with Kat, he had never thought the man had it in him to care for anyone but himself.

Giving up, he retreats from the Hall. Perhaps he was right - Kat is their best weapon. Then he sighs. That must not be - she does not deserve to have such a burden placed upon her. If people do not wish to cooperate with him, then he must prevail upon the King to _make_ them. That they shall hate him all the more is immaterial. He needs to track down a murderer.

* * *

Emerging from his meeting with the King, Rich sighs with relief. His Majesty's moods are never predictable - even when one approaches him with good news - and the report of monies raised from the confiscation of monastic properties, and the sale of lands, could not be guaranteed to please him. Rich has never been the target of the King's rage, but he has seen it directed at others, and has no wish to be its focus.

The figures are indeed impressive - and these are just the earnings from the smaller houses. He cannot begin to imagine the figures he is likely to be providing once the large houses are closed. The commissioners are already about their work, and he knows it shall not be long before his workload increases to match theirs.

As he returns to the offices, he notices Cromwell, standing over a wooden coffer and frowning. It seems a relatively inoffensive item, though it seems to have candles set into holders at either side which even now are still burning.

"Take a look at this." Cromwell invites, standing up and stepping from it. Bemused, Rich does as bid, "Our commissioners found it at Sawley Abbey."

Bending, Rich squints into a cross shaped hole cut into the top. Within, a skull, with some remnants of skin adhering to it, resides - its eyes filled with some sappy resin or other to fill them out. As he watches, it moves slightly. Rising, he knows full well that it cannot be doing so of its own volition, and looks at Cromwell, who is now standing at the other side of it, "How is it done?"

They switch places, and he sees the panel that has been drawn back from the rear of the coffer. There, within, is a small handle. Turning it, he bends forth over the coffer to look inside it again, and can see the top of the skull as it moves. A simple trick - but doubtless effective.

"People thought it granted benedictions." Cromwell glowers, crossly, "For a fee, naturally."

"Of course." Rich agrees, shaking his head.

"Has his Majesty seen the interim figures?" Cromwell asks, as they move back through the office to his desk.

"He has. And he seems content." Rich says, "At least, he did not dismiss me or hurl the papers at me. I took that to be a good sign. Has he issued his edict that people talk to us about that other matter?"

"Not yet - I have not had the opportunity to seek it from him. I am due to meet with him shortly."

"He appears to be in a good mood, my Lord." Rich advises, sagely, before retreating back to his desk to read some more reports just delivered from the Commissioners out in the countryside.

 _How odd it is_. Cromwell thinks to himself, as he sits down to collate the papers he is taking to the King. Barely a day has passed, and Rich seems to have become markedly less hostile. He is not blind. His kind treatment and clear respect for Kat has probably made the difference; but he knows better than to trust that things are improving between Rich and himself. Despite the clear affection he has for the woman, Rich is still known for his untrustworthiness. Cromwell has not got to where he is by being overly trusting.

Gathering the papers into a leather folio, Cromwell rises from his desk and departs to meet with the King. That his Majesty is in a good mood is always helpful, particularly as he has a letter from Lady Bryan, and one from the Lady Mary. That unfortunate young woman has been obliged to swallow an enormous degree of pride, for even with the new Queen's quiet promptings, Henry refuses to have her back to court unless she accepts his supremacy over the Church. Being an out and out papist to the marrow, Mary has resisted such a move from the moment it was first demanded of her. He cannot begin to imagine what such an about-face must have cost the girl. Despite his own dislike of all matters pertaining to the Church of Rome, he feels some sympathy for her - the price she must pay to receive her father's love…

Henry is at his desk in the Privy Chamber when Cromwell is shown in. As Rich reported, his mood is benign today, and the lack of that pervasive miasma from his rotting leg proves that, once again, he is likely hopeful that the damned mess is healing at last. It isn't - but still the King hopes. He reads through the papers, signs those that he must, and shows no discontent at those which might have caused him annoyance. Looking up as Cromwell gathers them back, he waits, "Anything else?"

"The Courtiers are proving most uncooperative to my investigation into the recent…incident." He does not use the word _murder_ , "I have found that none are prepared to answer any questions in relation to it."

"I shall issue an order that they do so this afternoon, Mr Cromwell." The King says, "I want the matter cleared up. What else?"

Cromwell nods, "I have a letter from the Lady Bryan. It seems that the Lady Elizabeth has outgrown her clothes, and Lady Bryan seeks to ask if she might procure new ones." He waits for the refusal. He knows it's coming and he is not disappointed.

"No - why should I pay for clothes for the brat? Everyone knows she is no child of mine - her father was the traitor Henry Norris, and her mother was a whore. Anything else?"

Sighing inwardly, Cromwell retrieves another paper, "There is this." He says, handing it over, "The submission of the Lady Mary."

This time Henry smiles, managing not to show too much spite as he does so, and reads the paper, "Very well. Arrange a meeting. In private, and not here."

"Yes, Majesty." He retrieves the paper and turns to leave.

"Oh - I have heard reports of plague in the City." Henry adds, almost as an aside, as he reaches for an apple, "The Coronation shall have to be postponed."

Bemused, Cromwell nods. He has heard nothing, and of all people in the Palace, he would know such things. The King is stalling again, it seems. He made the mistake of crowning Anne Boleyn before she bore him a son, and does not mean to do the same with Jane, then. Slightly saddened, he makes another attempt to leave.

"Thomas."

Cromwell pauses yet again, "Majesty?"

"Mr Rich showed me the figures. I'm very pleased with you, Tom." He pauses, almost for effect, as he slices away a cheek of the apple, "And shall shortly prove it."

Even more bemused, Cromwell nods, bows again, and finally escapes.

Rich approaches him as he returns to the offices, "What did the King say?"

"He shall order the Court to cooperate with us this afternoon, Mr Rich. Hopefully we shall be able to make more progress as a consequence."

Rich nods, a slightly evil smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Being of such little consequence, it is rare for men such as they to receive open support from the King.

"My Lord," A steward is at Cromwell's elbow, "I am commanded by the King to give you this." He hands out a folded paper with Henry's personal seal holding it closed. Frowning, Cromwell takes it, nods his thanks to the Steward and dismisses him. Assuming it to be private, Rich turns to go back to his desk. Despite an inquisitive desire to know what Cromwell has received, he does not feel brave enough to lurk nearby in hopes of finding out.

"It appears that his Majesty means to make this more formal and ceremonial than I anticipated." Cromwell advises, stopping him in his tracks. Rich turns back, "What do you mean, my Lord?"

"I am commanded to approach the King at two of the clock this afternoon."

Rich's eyebrows rise, "He means to offer you some appointment, then?"

"He does not say; though I am at a loss as to what appointment it might be - unless he means to appoint me as some form of Official Inquisitor or other. I am not short of such strange and unique appointments." His tone becomes slightly cynical.

Rich snorts with mild laughter, "Then I shall ensure that I am concealed amongst the crowd to discover what appointment it shall be."

He is as good as his word. The crowd in the Presence Chamber is, as always, extensive. All at Court hope for advancement, and thus linger where the King might notice them, and think them useful. Very few such folk prove to be of any purpose beyond cluttering up the palace precincts, however. They pay little attention to Rich, despite his more useful role than theirs. They are generally of better blood than he, and look down upon him for his Gentry ancestry. He wonders how much more they look down upon Cromwell.

"I am not pleased, my Lords." The King is saying, from his chair beneath the canopy of estate, "I have set men to work upon investigating the act of violence that took place not a week ago - and I am finding that my supposedly loyal subjects are being of no help to them. This must cease. From today, I expect all to offer their fullest cooperation."

There is a rumbling of assent from those about him, but Rich is not indifferent to their discontent. One or two rather unpleasant glares are shot in his direction; which annoys him somewhat, for he was not the blab.

As the Palace clock strikes the hour of two, the Garter King of Arms batters the foot of his staff upon the ground, "Mr Thomas Cromwell!"

All crane their heads as Cromwell enters, formally dressed and walking with a tall dignity that would put some of the grander Lords to shame. He is well aware of his low stock amongst those about him, but he has learned the importance of excellent manners, and show, and can politic with the best of them. As he approaches the King, he can see bemused glances that rather match his own bemusement. That the King intends to place another appointment is obvious, though he cannot work out what that might be. What else can the King grant him? A Knighthood, perhaps? That would not really help him demand the cooperation of the Court - for what has it done to help Rich?

He bows, and Henry bids him to kneel. As he does so, he sees the King's ceremonial sword. It is to be a Knighthood, then.

On one knee, he bows his head as the King sets the blade on one shoulder, and then the other, "I dub thee Sir Thomas Cromwell." He begins, as Cromwell closes his eyes, hardly believing that he finally has a title after all these years, "Arise Sir Thomas." But the King does not stop speaking, "Also Baron Cromwell of Wimbledon." His eyes open, and he looks up, startled. But the King has one more thing to say, and leans closer, "And Lord Privy Seal."

Cromwell's eyes widen, shocked: Lord Privy Seal? That is the third highest position in the Land - on top of that which he already holds, he has this…God above, who on earth remains who would defy his questioning now? Then he is horribly afraid - what else will the King put upon him now that he has such power? The King never grants such privileges without demanding a price in return.

Forcing the emotions aside, he rises slowly, "Majesty…" he manages, almost speechless.

Henry takes his words as thanks, and nods respectfully, "Sir Thomas." Then he returns to his seat while Cromwell bows formally and withdraws. For a moment, he catches a glimpse of Suffolk, standing beside the throne. The Duke's expression is sour, and Cromwell knows that he has earned the man's enmity through the simple act of being rewarded. He cannot keep back a slightly spiteful smile. He knows he should be better than that - but still, the satisfaction of seeing one of the higher born Lords so discomfited at his elevation is powerful, and he wishes to enjoy the moment. Besides, perhaps now people might actually be willing to answer his questions.

Turning, his dignity elevated as much as he, Cromwell departs the chamber, hearing words he never thought would be addressed in his direction, "Sir…", "Your Grace…"

It feels very sweet indeed.


	5. The Man with Red Hair

CHAPTER FIVE

 _The Man with Red Hair_

As the Court disperses, Rich remains where he is. If Cromwell was not expecting such an elevation, then Rich certainly was not, and he cannot help the sense of deep envy that bites at him. How fortunate it must be to have such favour from the King; in an instant he is not only knighted - as Rich is - but also ennobled and granted an appointment of enormous importance. No one has held the appointment since Thomas Boleyn was disgraced, and now it is Cromwell. He chews at his lower lip, trying to reconcile his gratitude to the man who treated his Kat with kindness and dignity with his sudden jealousy at an elevation that seems to be utterly arbitrary.

He wants to go in search of her - to set free the childish griping that is already crowding into his head; but he knows he cannot. She shall be with the Countess now, and he should be at his desk. Unaware of how much he is scowling, he retreats back to the offices.

Seated at his desk, Cromwell attempts to process the sudden slew of privileges that have been placed upon him. Knighted, ennobled, _and_ appointed Lord Privy Seal: in the space of no more than five minutes, he has moved almost beyond the reach of any who might wish to act against him. They must all _really_ hate him now. Despite himself, he still cannot repress the sense of slightly spiteful glee.

He looks up as Rich returns to the offices, and his mild amusement turns to an inward sigh. Rich still has no idea just how widely he displays his thoughts upon his face; and his jealous disgruntlement is like a beacon to Cromwell, who has learned from long experience the importance of those inadvertent statements on an unguarded face; and has also learned well how to disguise such thoughts from his own. Unless, of course, he chooses to display them. He considers, briefly, advising Rich to be more discreet - but then opts not to. Rich is quite offended enough as it is.

Rather than rub salt into the wound by demanding that they commence their questioning immediately, Cromwell sits down with his papers again. His elevation has done nothing to clear those from his desk, and he wishes to complete that which is before him so that he can concentrate tomorrow upon the equally important matter of investigating the death of Anne Hamme. He can only hope that Rich is not still sulking in the morning.

His quarters are empty of all but his manservant when Rich ends his working day. Disappointed, but not perturbed, for there are occasions when Kat is not present, and her apologies are always very enjoyable, he seats himself by the fireplace with a cup of sack and continues trying not to wallow in envy. He has no right to be jealous - none at all. Cromwell works damned hard and has earned every ounce of reward the King bestows; but he is base-born. He should not even _be_ at Court…

"Would you like me to set out some supper, my Lord?" His manservant asks, discreetly.

"Not immediately." He declines, for he does not yet know if Kat shall be present, and he is not sure whether he would prefer to sup with an empty place opposite, or alone and find himself looking at a hungry woman who has nothing to eat, "I shall call you." The manservant withdraws, and he goes back to his brooding again. Until this morning, thinking dark thoughts about the man he loathes was quite an enjoyable pastime - until Cromwell granted Kat such courtesy and respect. He didn't look away from her as others do, nor did he grant her anything other than his full attention. For someone so ruthless, so utterly singleminded in his determination to act for the King, Rich never realised how much Cromwell makes time for those who have been less fortunate than he. Now - despite his envy - he finds that he does not dislike the tiresome upstart as much as he thought he might. It seems, after all, that the man has a heart.

The door opens. Only one person opens the door to his chambers without knocking, and he looks up to see the veiled form of Kat, dressed in a light overgown atop a patterned kirtle. It is only as she closes the door that she removes the veiling that keeps people from staring at her, and she returns his welcoming smile, "Forgive me, Richie," She says, "The Countess has not been well today, and she demanded my company rather longer than usual. Have you supped?"

"Not without you, Kat." He indicates the other chair beside the fireplace, "I shall call John back to organise some victuals for us."

She eyes him as she sits down. He has no idea that she can read him as well as Cromwell does, "What is it, Richie?"

"The news has not reached you, then?"

She shakes her head.

"Cromwell is knighted, ennobled and made Lord Privy Seal." He says, trying to keep his sour envy from his voice, but failing utterly to keep it from his face.

"And that is not a good thing?" Kat asks, "He is not noble, and surely that speaks for the power of merit over blood, does it not?"

"Perhaps…but…" he stops. He knows how it sounds.

"But what?" Kat prompts.

"I wish the honours were mine." He admits.

To his relief, she does not view him with scorn, or annoyance, "He has ten years on you, Richie," She reminds him, "He is beating a path for all men of low-born blood to follow - why not follow his lead and earn the King's love through hard work and diligent service as he has done, rather than through a mere accident of birth?"

Rich sighs. He knows that she is right, but his pride will not permit him to agree with her. Instead, she reaches out and takes his hand, "Do not let pride lead you, Richie. I have learned through painful experience that pride is an enemy as much as a friend, and it is most fickle. It can be stamped upon as nothing else can, and be utterly crushed - but it can also lead one astray to a fearsome degree in order to protect itself."

"Am I so transparent?" He asks.

"To me?" Kat smiles, "Yes. Like glass." Rising from her chair, she seats herself upon his lap again, claiming his mouth with hers. She pulls away briefly, "That is excellent sack, my Lord."

Rich laughs, "You are a wicked woman."

"I do my best, my Lord." She says, and kisses him again.

* * *

Cromwell is surprised to find Rich is already busy in the chamber they have set aside for their investigation. As he had hoped, his colleague's mood is much improved, and Cromwell offers silent thanks to Kat for her apparent ability to alter Rich's temper - though he does not wish to speculate over how she achieved it.

"I have ordered the information that we have so far, my Lord." Rich advises, "I think it might be helpful to categorise our papers, so this pile indicates that which we have uncovered from our initial investigation." He points to another sheaf of papers, "This one contains the notes from Doctor Butts, and this," he indicates a single sheet of paper, again in his impeccable chancery italic hand, "shall, hopefully, add to the information that Miss Silverton provided."

Cromwell sits, and sighs, "Please do not refer to me so formally, Mr Rich." He says, "I am quite overburdened with titles and do not need to be reminded of them. My name is Thomas - I should much prefer it if you referred to me by name; in private, at least. I can be 'your Grace', or 'my Lord', when other people are in earshot, but I should prefer to be considered a mere mortal the remainder of the time."

Rich raises his eyebrows. Being under-burdened with honours, he would like nothing more than to be referred to as 'your Grace' by others, in public or in private, and finds it most strange that one who is entitled to such deference would rather eschew it, "If that is your preference, my Lor…Thomas." He pauses, then remember's Kat's advice about pride, "In which case, if you are content to refer to me as 'Richard', I should not object."

A small rapprochement, perhaps - but better than the awful, stiff formality that has governed their dealings prior. Emerging from the room, they walk together, but no longer apart. There are people to be questioned, even if only for minor details, and now they are under Royal command not to refuse; so, once again, Rich is armed with paper, quill and ink.

For reasons that he cannot quite explain, even to himself, Cromwell does not wish to conduct the interviews in the room that he has set aside for their papers, so he commandeers a small chamber a few doors down from the entrance to the main Waiting Chamber. Most courtiers congregate there in hopes of petitioning - or at least being noticed by - the King, so it is less of an inconvenience for them to be pulled away.

"Do you think we might uncover a suspect?" Rich asks, as he sets out his writing equipment, "It seems rather unlikely to me."

"Perhaps so, Richard. But I think we must start somewhere. Even rumour and innuendo is better at this point than nothing. I think, however, that I shall start with those who knew Miss Hamme. They might be willing to identify the man with whom she associated." He rises from his seat and leaves the room.

He is not gone long, returning with a rather pale looking young woman in a dress that looks most fine, until Rich notices that the hem is slightly frayed. Another courtier of insufficient means, then.

"Please take a seat Miss Willmott." Cromwell invites, the soul of courtesy. Taking his cue from Cromwell's apparent mood, Rich nods encouragingly rather than guardedly, as he charges his nib with ink. Seating herself, she confirms that her name is Sarah Willmott, and she is one of the train of the Countess of Derby.

"How well did you know Anne Hamme, Miss Willmott?" Cromwell asks.

"Not overly well, my Lord." She replies, her voice almost inaudible; a mouse in the presence of a hawk, "I only arrived at Court two months ago."

"With whom did she associate herself?" This is not the Cromwell who intimidated the late Queen Anne's women. Instead, he is seated beside her, rather than standing over her. His tone is gentle, his voice kind. It is clear that the girl equates an interview with him with dark fates in the Tower, and he wishes to dispel that fear, "You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Willmott - I merely seek information, nothing more."

"She had a lot of friends, my Lord." Miss Willmott tells him, still very quietly, "But mostly she was with Miss Wright. They were very close."

"Miss Emma Wright?" Rich asks, to clarify. The girl nods, and he notes it down.

"Was she seeing any men at Court?" Cromwell asks.

For a moment, Miss Willmott is silent, almost afraid to speak.

"She was, wasn't she?" He prompts, gently.

"Sir Simon Paxton." The words are barely audible. It's clear that she won't say much else, for she is almost in tears.

"You have my word, Miss Willmott," Cromwell says, as she fumbles for a kerchief, "Nothing that you say in here shall be made public. Your testimony shall be entirely confidential. He shall not know you have spoken to us."

Rich looks up, surprised - then he realises. The girl fears intimidation; and with good reason - for Paxton has a singularly vile reputation for violence. What on earth was Anne Hamme doing, associating with a man like that? All know of his affairs, and their usually messy endings.

Rather than upset the girl any further, Cromwell allows her to leave. They have obtained little information, but little is better than none, for now they have a possible suspect.

"What do you know of Simon Paxton, Richard?" Cromwell asks. He does not require the information - more an opinion.

"That he is a brute." Rich answers, "And that no woman who associates with him can expect to go for more than a month without bruises or worse. Even the rest of the Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber despise him; rakes though they are. He seems quite intent on outdoing their exploits in the hope that they might consider him more one of them than they do at present."

Cromwell nods, for Rich's assessment is not that far from his own. He makes it his business to know all that he can about those who associate with the King, and Paxton is remarkable in that he is tolerated at all, "As I understand it," He muses, "Paxton's primary talent appears to be misconstruing comments to deliberately take offence, and then reacting with extreme violence to that unwarranted offence. The King banned him from the Presence chamber for six months last year for such a brawl - and it was with an utterly inoffensive Gentleman who had not even spoken to him."

Rich remembers the incident - the man had been talking of some utterly innocuous matter with the Milanese Ambassador. Paxton had broken his nose for his imagined affront. How on earth they shall interview a man with such a quick temper, he cannot begin to imagine. He could not hope to do it - only Cromwell has that intimidating reputation. This is a man who sent six to the block, for Christ's sake. Only a fool could not be intimidated by him. But then, Simon Paxton is a fool, and he does not wish to be in the room when his temper explodes.

* * *

"Please take a seat, Miss Wright." Cromwell invites politely, "I can assure you that this interview shall be entirely confidential. None outside these walls shall be informed of our discussions."

"Thank you, my Lord." She is less fearful than Sarah Willmott, but still nervous. All are nervous in Cromwell's presence.

"I understand that you were close friends with Miss Hamme," Cromwell begins, "How well did you know her?"

"Very well, my Lord." Miss Wright says, quietly, "We shared a truckle in the dormitory before she was granted an apartment of her own, and shared most of our secrets."

Cromwell nods, while Rich scribbles, "How did she conduct herself, as a rule?"

Miss Wright looks a little uncomfortable, "I know her reputation, my Lord, but she had a good heart. I think she wished for adventure, and romance - but found only servitude. Such is the way of things for women of our degree. I know that her family had hoped she could serve in the retinue of the Queen - but her manner was too free, too uncontrolled. She gave freely, you know - not so much of her virtue, but of her heart. It was her ambition - it is one all of us share, I think - to secure a fine husband and become a great lady of the Court. She had such dreams, you know? Such dreams…" her voice falters, and she reaches for a kerchief.

"Was she seeing any of the men at Court?" Cromwell asks, as she dabs at her damp eyes.

She nods, though her expression is rather dark now, "Just one man. I think she was enamoured of one of the Stewards for a while, but what can they grant women of our state? She caught the eye of Sir Simon Paxton - one of the King's Gentlemen. I counselled her to avoid him, for we all know his reputation; but she saw only an escape from servitude to the Countess. She is most strict, you see, and Anne loathed to be constrained so."

"And did Sir Simon prove his reputation?"

"He did." Miss Wright murmurs, "I came upon Anne a week ago, late in the night. He had beaten her severely - and her dress was torn. She was distraught, but would not tell me more. Only that she had remarked upon another man's doublet. It was rather too red for a man of his station, you see. She said that she was talking to Miss Horner at the time, but it seems that Sir Simon overheard her. He waylaid her as she returned to her chamber."

"Miss Horner?" Rich prompts from the table.

"Mary Horner - the daughter of Sir William Horner."

The pair exchange a glance. Not perhaps an immediate witness, but possibly worth talking to in order to obtain corroboration.

"Do you think he killed her?" Miss Wright's eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"I cannot say at this time, Miss Wright." Cromwell admits, "I have not sufficient evidence to make any judgements one way or another."

As he sees her out, and returns to the table, Rich looks at him, "Do you think he killed her?" he asks again.

Cromwell shakes his head, "I cannot say, Richard. I have nothing upon which to base an accusation. We know from his reputation - and from events - that he is capable of astonishing violence, and does not need much in the way of provocation to unleash it; but it is a great step from fists to a blade."

"Perhaps, then, we should interview him from a neighbouring room."

Cromwell laughs, "I wish that we could. I have no doubt that our questioning shall be most unwelcome, and that he shall react to it with his habitual temper. I shall seek him out, I think. Best to get this over and done with as soon as we may."

As Cromwell predicted, Paxton is most displeased. A man with brilliant blue eyes, and a shock of red hair, he seems most determined to bow to those beliefs about the temper of red-headed men, and glowers viciously at Rich as Cromwell directs him to sit without preamble. He has no interest in gentility or concern for a man such as this.

"What do you want?" Paxton snaps, crossly, "I have nothing to say to you, Cromwell."

The atmosphere seems to chill almost noticeably, as Cromwell turns slowly and calmly, "I believe the proper term of address, Sir Simon, is 'Your Grace'."

"As though I care for the undeserved honours laid upon you. Are you not the base-born son of a blacksmith?"

"And Brewer, Sir Simon. My father was also a brewer." Cromwell corrects him, meticulously. Does this man really think that he feels discomfort over his origins? Nearby, Rich continues to note everything, "I must remind you that all at Court are under the orders of the King's Grace to cooperate with this investigation. Failure to do so would be looked upon with great disfavour by his Majesty." It is the only card he has to play. Best to lay it on the table from the off, as it is very much the triumph.

Glowering, Paxton sits and waits for the questioning to start.

"I understand you were recently seeing Anne Hamme, Sir Simon." Cromwell begins.

"That is no secret." Paxton snaps back, at once.

"I have heard that, a few days ago - perhaps a week - you were involved in an… _altercation_ with her."

He shrugs, "She betrayed me. It was nothing more than she deserved."

"Betrayed you?" Cromwell asks, "You mean, she was with another man?"

"She was talking about that idiot Neville and his too-red doublet. She was mine. She had no right to notice other men."

"You consider a minor observation of another individual's failure to observe appropriate dress to be an act of infidelity?"

"The stupid bitch should've known better. She was mine." He repeats, as though Cromwell is too dull to understand the complexities of relationships outside wedlock.

"And what was your response to her…betrayal?" Cromwell's tone is quite deliberately cynical. His dislike of the man is growing with each second, and he despised him from the beginning.

"To teach the whore a lesson. I gave her a bloody nose for her presumption, and tupped her like a heifer. She belonged to me and no one else." He shrugs, as though his actions were perfectly justifiable under the circumstances.

Cromwell's eyes narrow, and his expression darkens, "Tupped?"

"'Fucked', if you want a more appropriate word for a man of your ilk, _your Grace._ "

"I am well aware of the meaning of the term, Sir Simon." Cromwell growls, "I merely wondered if her consent was sought in the transaction."

"Of course it wasn't. She didn't have a say. She was mine, and it was my right to have it."

What did Butts say? There was a forcible penetration? If not the murderer, then certainly Sir Simon - or, his act prior to his killing of her…

"Can you advise me of your whereabouts some three nights past?" Cromwell asks, his tone low; deadly. He despises the crime of rape, and any who think it a permissible act. He exchanges a glance with Rich, who looks equally disgusted.

"In Cheapside. With the whores." Paxton drawls, disinterestedly.

"Can that be corroborated?"

"What do you think?"

"Given that the women in the brothels can be either paid or intimidated to provide evidence that you were with them, I am not entirely convinced that I can consider your whereabouts to be confirmed." Cromwell's eyes have darkened, his expression more hawklike than ever. Even Paxton seems to shrink from him - but then his words sink in.

"Damn you for a base-born, lying bastard!" He is on his feet, "I am of the Gentry, and you call me a liar?"

Cromwell glares into his raging eyes, "I am claiming that your witnesses cannot be certain to be trusted. Or is that being overly cautious?"

Seated at the table, Rich stares nervously at them. He is glad he was not writing when Paxton's temper exploded, for he started quite violently. He can only hope that the angry Gentleman does not decide to fling his fists at the Lord Privy Seal, for he does not wish to attempt to break up a fight.

"You think to pin this upon me - the killing of a worthless whore? Even had I done so, who would care? She was nothing but a gutter-living slut! So what if I fucked her up against the wall? So what if she cried and begged me to stop? She had no right to demand that I leave her be! She became mine when she opened her legs for me, and I was claiming only that which was mine to claim!"

His rage seems only to be growing - but still Cromwell remains absolutely impassive, staring the man down. Finally, his eyes vicious, Paxton stops shouting, but he still has one more thing in mind. Rather than lash out at the Lord Privy Seal, he grasps the edge of the table with one firm hand, and hurls it over, scattering paper and ink, and causing the other side to crash violently against Rich as he attempts to leap out of the way. Without another word, he strides to the door, snatches it open and slams it closed behind him.

Concerned, Cromwell turns to Rich, who is now leaning against the far wall, cursing softly and pressing his hand to the painful spot on his hip where the table struck. Fortunately, his simarre is the thick one of brown fur, so much of the impact was cushioned, but they both know that he shall have a most spectacular bruise in a very short time.

"That went well." He grunts.

* * *

Cursing slightly as he crouches to retrieve the scattered papers, Rich checks them all in the hopes that none were obscured by flying ink.

"Are the papers unmarked?" Cromwell asks, righting the table again.

"A few small drops here and there - but nothing to obscure my notes." Despite his flippant comment at Paxton's departure, it is clear that Rich is not pleased to have found himself in the way of the Gentleman's rage, "I cannot, however, vouch for the future cleanliness of the floorboards."

He gathers the papers together carefully, then looks up at Cromwell, "God, I wish it was him. I should happily see him hang for the crimes to which he has admitted; but he thinks them not to be crimes."

"We shall need more than that which we have to be certain, I fear, Richard; though I, too, would find it gratifying to place this at his door. A vile man he may be, but a murderer? That is another matter."

Rich sighs, "I shall get these notes transcribed. I shall need an hour; perhaps two."

As he returns to his desk, Cromwell sighs to see yet more papers piled up in his absence. He is no longer concerned at the progress of the dissolution, for that is now in the hands of the commissioners, while Rich is responsible for dealing with that which is confiscated. Instead, he must turn his attention - again - to the King's desire to get his bastard son legitimised. If only Queen Jane would conceive. Her continued lack of a babe in her belly serves only to fire Henry's determination to have a son to succeed him by any means necessary; and yet, if she _does_ bring a son into the world, how would that change the plans that he is obliged to set in place? Patience has never been Henry's strong suit - his appalling tempers during the seven years he waited to secure marriage to Anne were testament to that, as was his determination to divest himself of her after he grew tired of the woman who had seemed so intoxicating when he was fighting to possess her. And now, he is impatient to gain a legitimate son, even one from a woman to whom he is not, and was never, married.

Fitzroy is still at court - dancing with the ladies in the evenings, hunting with his father and the higher Lords in the mornings, and sitting with the Privy Council in the afternoons. As Warden of the Cinque Ports, such is his right, but he is so youthful, and inexperienced, that he says nothing, and instead eyes the wiser heads about him with a strange mixture of respect and disdain. The King regularly tells him that he is better than these men - and yet their knowledge and experience leaves him far behind. In Cromwell's eyes, it is not perhaps the most healthy form of education in the art of politics.

Reading through the clauses with meticulous care, Cromwell marks off each one as he completes it. Whorwood has taken care to ensure that all the measures set in place to elevate Fitzroy do not overrule the rights of a true-born son - and he has done so as fully and carefully as Rich would have done when he held the post of Solicitor General. That said, Cromwell notes that Whorwood does not seem to have quite such an encyclopaedic knowledge of law as his predecessor; no one, it seems, can interpret the Law like Rich could.

A Steward is at his side. Setting the papers down, he turns.

"Sir Richard has asked that you join him, my Lord."

Nodding, he dismisses the Steward and strolls to the chamber where they are storing their notes. There are papers scattered everywhere - mostly witness statements, it seems, from the many people who saw and heard nothing whatsoever on the possible night that Anne Hamme died. The number of papers is surprisingly extensive - and largely unsolicited; people have taken the King's order to heart, but done as little as they can get away with to comply with it.

The table, while large, is becoming rather covered, and Cromwell glares at the mess in frustration, "Maybe I should secure another table."

Rich shakes his head, and departs at a swift trot. Bemused, Cromwell waits; but he does not have to wait long, for Rich returns with a small iron pot, which - it turns out - contains a fair quantity of tacks. In an instant, Cromwell appreciates what his colleague has in mind, and the two begin to search through the piles of paper, collating and categorising over again.

"I shall set the initial observations here." Rich says, carefully pinning the pages to the plaster on the wattle, "Doctor Butts's observations here."

"I suggest we separate out those statements that we have directly obtained from those which have been sent to us." Cromwell adds, "I feel it is likely that the unsolicited statements are likely to be of little help to us - but if we have them easily set out, we can arrange them in order of relevance."

The work takes much of the remainder of the afternoon, for the King has once again cancelled the Privy Council meeting to spend the afternoon riding with Fitzroy and the Duke of Suffolk. Sorting through the unsolicited statements proves to be a frustrating business, for many of the pages contain rumours or hearsay for which there is little corroboration, and some are obviously malicious accusations against enemies.

"I had no idea that people here hated each other so much." Rich observes, "I thought it was just us."

Cromwell snorts with amusement, "Do any names spring out with any regularity?"

"None. I have seen only one name appear more than once - but the courtier concerned is Lord Watford, and I know for certain that he has been in Winchester since June. Besides, he is in his seventies, and regardless of his rather lecherous bent, I doubt he has the strength to eviscerate a human body."

As the afternoon draws to a close, the papers are now pinned to the wall in some form of order, and - against the odds - the men who have undertaken the work are now rather more well disposed to each other than they were when it all began. Cromwell wonders to himself whether it was his chivalrous behaviour towards Kat which turned that particular corner - but nonetheless it shall make life much more straightforward if he can undertake this tiresome investigation with a colleague in whom he can place some trust. Until two days ago, he had not thought it likely that he could achieve such a truce with Rich.

It appears, however, that maybe he can.


	6. Autumn Pilgrims

**A/N:** Just a quick break into the story to offer thanks to you lovely people who are reading my scribblings. I really appreciate it.

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

 _Autumn Pilgrims_

The ranks of paper upon the walls of the chamber that has been set aside for the investigation look rather impressive - but, as Cromwell gazes at them, sourly, they promise much, but grant little. So many of the statements that have been provided to them are of no value at all, that he has had to set them aside in a small bundle, which he has marked 'Malice', for they are clearly intended for the sole purpose of settling old scores, and he has neither the time, nor the interest, to involve himself with such petty stupidity.

Rich is sitting at the table, working his way through another trough of papers that have come in, separating out those which are clearly malicious, and those which may be of use. Largely, everything so far is in the 'malicious' category, and he, too, is looking most sour. And tired.

"There is nothing here, Thomas." He says, eventually, "Everyone is naming those for whom they wish to cause trouble, and nothing else. Not one of these tales shows any link to the events of which we are aware, and even those which do give no hint of a motive, or even a reason why they think the individual concerned is to blame. I cannot find any correlation between that which we know, and the nonsense being spouted in these missives." He sighs, and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Given the length of time he has spent examining each and every one, as Cromwell has, and having come to the same conclusion, they both know that there is nothing of use to them in any of the pages. In some ways, the King has immense power to command; in others, however, he has none at all. The Court may obey his demand, but they do not take it seriously.

"Get you gone, Richard." Cromwell advises, "Tiredness is never an aid to good work. It is late, and you have neither dined nor supped today."

"Neither have you." Rich reminds him. They are both dreadfully busy now, with the Commissioners sending in reports that arrive almost hourly. Neither has had time to eat since they broke their separate fasts this morning, and they are obliged not only to do their own work, but find - or _make_ \- the time to review their investigation into Anne Hamme's murder. Not the most suitable of tasks to place in harness together.

Kat is waiting for him in his quarters when Rich returns, and her presence brightens his mood at once, as it always does. The hour might be late, but she is always there when he needs her to be, and there is even a baked ham with spiced apples, and bread, on the table. Despite his tiredness, and the lateness of the hour, his hunger overrules his wish to sit down with the woman that he loves, and instead she joins him at the table while he carves at the ham.

"Have you made any progress, Richie?" she asks, as he stuffs a chunk of bread into his mouth and chews almost beatifically.

He shakes his head, and waits to speak until he has swallowed, "No, Kat. None. We know who died, and how - but not who committed the deed. Our suspect is under consideration on only the lightest of grounds - for he is known to be violent, but not with blades." He yawns.

"You are working too hard." Kat admonishes him.

"If I am working too hard, then God help Thomas."

"Thomas?" Kat asks, an eyebrow sardonically raised.

"I am taking your advice, Kat." Rich advises her, "It seems that I _am_ being too proud. He is a better man than I give him credit for."

She smiles, "Is that because he is a better man, or because he was kind to me?"

"Both. I think." He admits, smiling at her, "He is a better man - _because_ he was kind to you."

She tears a small piece of ham from one of his slices, "Gentlemen are made, not born. I have found that out from personal experience."

Rich eyes her fondly: he has long since ceased to notice that which is the first thing others see. But for the legal work that the Countess had sought from him, he might never even have met her. Being so bright, she was the one that the Countess had deputed to clerk for him, and her wit, and manner, had attracted him long before she had permitted him to see beneath her veil. By the time she did, he would not have cared if she had been one of the Graeae, and did not flinch from the ghastly ruin of her once fine face.

"I do not think that we shall find this miscreant." He admits, with a sad sigh, "There is nothing upon which we can even begin to form a theory as to who perpetrated the crime."

"Poor Anne." Kat murmurs, softly, "She had not an evil bone in her body. But for her foolishness in embarking upon a liaison with Sir Simon Paxton, she did nothing wrong. She was ill-served in her childhood. All that can be said is that she is no longer in pain, and her dreams are no longer unfulfilled. She is with God, now - and He shall comfort her soul." She looks at him again, her eyes darkening with luscious promise, "allow me, my Lord, to comfort yours."

* * *

The King's mood at the council meeting is grim, for his beloved 'Prince' has departed for Lincolnshire, to his estate near Stamford. Like all of the King's children, the youth spends a deal of his time away from Court; though in Fitzroy's case, he is missed. Mary and Elizabeth, on the other hand, seem to be all but forgotten. The faces present in the Court are generally young, to compensate for the King's ageing and his desire to be forever young, but the lack of Royal children in the Palaces does not go unnoticed or unremarked by the Princes overseas. All know that Henry's claim to his throne is based upon his father's taking it in war rather than right of blood. It is sounded in the foreign Courts that this is God's sign of disapproval not only of a bastard line stealing the Crown from the ruling dynasty, but also of his refusal to submit to the authority of God's chosen Prince of the Church. He knows this - naturally - and chafes against it; but he cannot deny the lack of a true-born son to carry on his name.

Cromwell rises to his feet to make his report of ongoing affairs, "Your Majesty should note that, owing to last year's poor harvest, food prices are rising in the shires, and I have received reports from the Commissioners that they are seeing cases of severe hunger in some areas. I have set aside funds for the relief of those in need of sustenance - and, with your consent, shall begin the release of said funds as soon as possible."

The King nods, "It is well. Let it be done."

"The stipulations for the Statue of Uses are now in full operation, Majesty." He adds, drawing an approving nod from the King, who has been demanding reform of property law for some time - though this is, naturally, largely to ensure that the taxes that are due to his exchequer are collected rather than evaded by landowners through fraudulent transfers of land. Being very much a personal project on Henry's part, his expression is pleased, for he has been rather more personally involved in the drafting of the clauses than would normally be the case. As he takes his seat again, Cromwell hides his feeling of doubt. The intent of the Statute is laudable, in that it aims to clamp down on fraud - but in some respects, to his tutored eye, it seems more to encourage it than stamp it out. He makes a mental note to sit down with Rich and look at the clauses again as soon as they have some spare time. His own knowledge of the law is solid, but Rich has been immersed in statutes for years, and he would prefer to have a second pair of expert eyes to hand.

Matters progress slowly, and Henry's impatience is starting to show. His leg is stinking again, and the word has gone round that the Queen has failed to conceive again this month, making his temper dangerously short. With the departure of the King's only welcome child as well, Cromwell recognises the signs of an impending explosion, and he is not disappointed.

"God's wounds!" Henry shouts, suddenly, as Suffolk reports on yet another letter from Rome demanding the reinstatement of the Lady Mary to the succession, "When will that damned Vicar rest? Has he not sufficient other matters into which he can intrude?"

"The Lady Mary _is_ your daughter, Majesty." Suffolk reminds him, benignly. Brandon knows he is on treacherous ground, but he has never truly been comfortable with the King's break with Rome - though he is not fool enough to show it - nor the removal of Queen Katherine to make way for Queen Anne.

"Of no true marriage, Charles!" Henry snaps back, "I was married to my brother's widow, an abomination in God's sight! Thus, she was not permitted to give me a son, and my marriage was invalid. The girl is a bastard and has no place in the succession!"

Cromwell blinks - is this the same King who asked him to arrange a private meeting between himself, Queen Jane and the Lady Mary? Has he forgotten the impending rapprochement? He does not raise the matter - it is to be kept private, after all.

Brandon nods, quietly, and retakes his seat as Henry glowers dangerously.

"And what of the death?" he asks, suddenly; unexpectedly. The Councillors exchange bemused glances: what death?

Again, Cromwell rises to his feet, "Unfortunately, it has not been possible at this point to identify a perpetrator." He admits, quietly, "The victim was one of the retinue of the Countess of Derby - a Miss Anne Hamme - but there appears to be no motive for the crime, and the evidence we have, while extensive in amount, has done little to throw light upon the act. We continue to investigate as best…"

He gets no further. Henry has been looking for something to lose his temper at, and he has found it, "I do not tolerate excuses!" He snaps, rising to his feet, "Are you truly so appallingly incompetent that you cannot even uncover a criminal in the midst of the Court?"

Most of those at the table are - surreptitiously, at least - enjoying the Lord Privy Seal's discomfiture. Henry's tantrums are always amusing if they are directed at the hated Cromwell. Rich is looking away, not wishing to catch the King's eye - for he, too, is attempting to investigate the 'crime' and has no desire to be included in the outburst of bad temper. Thus he hears, rather than sees, the thud as Henry lashes out and strikes Cromwell across the side of the head, "I expect you to capture this miscreant, Cromwell! Do you hear me? I will not have such acts of brutality in my Court!" With that, he turns and limps from the room as quickly as his rotting leg will permit. So hasty is his departure, that the Councillors scramble to their feet to bow as he goes.

Rich, again, cannot hide his shocked expression. Even though he is well aware that the King is inclined to strike Cromwell from time to time, he has never seen it actually happen - not that he has truly _seen_ it this time, admittedly. He joins Cromwell as he gathers his papers together, and is equally surprised to find that Cromwell seems not at all concerned at the incident.

"Does it not discomfit you, Thomas?" he asks, as they return to the offices.

"What - that?" Cromwell replies, "Not remotely. I was struck with worse violence by my father - and with far greater frequency. The King's tempers are soon over. He is in pain, and hard pressed."

Rich stares at him. The worst he was required to endure in his childhood was strictness and a vague sense of disappointment at his failure to be more martially inclined. His own father had wanted his second boy to be a commander of soldiers, and achieve military glory - but instead received an academically minded youth more suited to the legal profession. Perhaps that is why he is so desperate to advance his career at Court.

Not that he has ever considered his motives in such depth before - not being inclined to introspection for fear of what he might find if he _did_ explore his conscience to such a degree. Shrugging the thought off, he changes the subject, and they talk of other matters as they return to their desks.

* * *

Cromwell sighs as he reads another report from Richard Layton, one the chiefs of his Commissioners. Unlike his colleague Thomas Legh, Layton tends to be more moderate, and has not yet required censure for his behaviour; additionally, he acts as a pair of eyes in those areas to which Cromwell has no access. Most importantly of all, he notices more than merely the riches of the Houses that they are investigating.

Rich is nearby, working his way through a book of statutes, when he hears Cromwell sigh and turns, "What is it, my Lord?" They are, after all, not in private.

"Matters are worsening in the shires, Mr Rich." Cromwell advises, "Doctor Layton reports more cases of severe hunger - the prices of basic foodstuffs have risen beyond the means of some of our poorest citizens, it appears. Worse, he reports that the monies that we are releasing are not being spent appropriately. The local commissioners are merely using the funds to support their own tables." He scowls, "I shall have to find some time to write more letters of censure, it appears."

Rich offers a sympathetic look, and returns to his own work, accompanied by the battering of yet another autumn squall upon the mullions above his bent head. The harvest this year has been better, admittedly, but the autumn that has followed it has been wet, squally and unpleasant.

A Steward is standing at Cromwell's desk, with yet another sealed paper in his hand, "This has just come in by fast horse, my Lord."

Frowning, Cromwell takes it and carefully breaks the seal. After several minutes of absolute silence, Rich turns again, and realises that his colleague has gone quite visibly pale, "What is it?"

Without a word, Cromwell holds out the letter for Rich to take. Bemused, he reaches for it.

 _My Lord,_

 _Word has come from Lincolnshire of a great uprising of the commons. It is thought that those involved numbers in the thousands, and that they have earned the support of the nobility - though it is not known whether they have joined willingly or on pain of death. Without the loyalty of the Nobles to suppress the rabble, it is feared that the militia might also join with those who have risen, and they believe themselves to be beyond the censure of the Law, I fear._

 _For God's sake, send aid - for already one commissioner has been murdered, and if there is the stink of blood in their nostrils, there is no telling what might follow._

 _T Legh_

"Jesu…" Rich breathes, handing the short missive back, "What is to be done?"

"That which Legh asks, Mr Rich." Cromwell says, quietly, "I must speak to the King."

While he is gone, another letter arrives, this one from Layton, it appears. Unlike Legh, his words are more considered, and more observant - and, equally importantly, he has provided details not only of the composition of the rising, but also what they want. It's clear that the King needs to see this, too. Reluctantly, Rich leaves the offices in Cromwell's wake.

"And what do these ingrates want?" Henry's voice is strident as Rich approaches the Privy Chamber, making him most keen to turn tail and leave again.

"Dr Legh has not spoken of the motives of those involved, your Majesty." Cromwell's voice is remarkably calm in the face of the onslaught, and Rich finds himself flinching slightly at the sound of a slap being delivered.

"Then find out, you idiot! Do I have to do everything myself? Find out!"

A trembling usher shows Rich in, and he finds the King's anger suddenly directed at him, "What do you want, Rich?"

"Forgive me your Majesty," He stammers, "The information you require was delivered a few minutes ago. Dr Layton has also sent a report."

"What do the rabble want, then?" Henry snaps, glowering.

"I…er…" he stops, swallows, and tries again, "It appears that the rising was sparked following evensong at the Church of St James in Louth - after the nearby Abbey was recently closed. Dr Layton's informant has stated that they have a number of demands - primarily the ending of the closure of the religious houses, the repeal of the ten articles, the purging of heretics from the Government, an end to taxes in peacetime and…" he pauses, nervously, for he knows that Henry will not like the final demand "…and the repeal of the Statute of Uses."

"And the nobility have not suppressed them?" the King hisses, apparently ignoring the dislike of his pet project.

"The nobility have joined with them." Cromwell admits, rather hesitantly, "Though it is likely that many have done so in fear of their lives."

"The nobility have _joined_ them?" Henry's expression is apoplectic, "Damn them! Damn them for the snivelling ingrates that they are! They should have dispatched their militia! Blast them all to Hell! Why did they not?"

"Dr Legh fears that the militiamen might also join the rising." Cromwell admits, only to receive another stinging slap across the face.

"Get Brandon in here!" Henry shouts, raging, "Get him in here _now_!" He turns back to the two men in the room, "Get out. The pair of you - _get out_!"

"God help us," Rich babbles, nervously, as they return to the office, "what are we to do? Does the King blame us for this?"

"Calm yourself, Richard." Cromwell advises, rather more benignly, "If we are to respond to this, it must be with care and consideration. The King is likely to wish to divest himself of all blame, and thus we are the ones upon whom all censure shall rest…"

"What?" Rich interrupts, visibly pale; Cromwell can see the rising fear of incarceration in the tower, or worse, in his colleague's frightened expression. The King is angry enough at their failure to apprehend the murderer of Anne Hamme, and now this? "But our actions are to deliver _his_ demands and policies!"

"His Majesty does not like to believe that the people would rise against him - he has seen rebellions before, when he was a child, if you recall. That they do so now is likely to be a shocking outcome to his actions for what he considers to be the overall good of the State, and he would not wish to be seen as the reason - so he shall blame those who carry out his demands, on the grounds that they advised him in the first place."

"Oh God…"

Cromwell suddenly grabs Rich's shoulder, and pushes him against the wall, "Do not lose your grip upon yourself, Mr Rich." He says, rather menacingly, "If we are to survive this, then we must do so united. Our primary goal is to secure the King's authority, not our own heads - for the latter relies entirely upon the former. Now is not the time for nerves, or fear; we must be ruthless, and determined, or we shall both pay for this with our lives. Do not doubt that for a moment."

He can see it: Rich is terrified. Not so much of the looming shadow of the scaffold, but the cold bloodymindedness in his own expression, and the deadly tone of his voice. His reputation for cold-blooded ruthlessness is not fantastic in origin. He has been, and shall be, absolute in his manoeuvrings to survive in this game, but if he must carry Rich in the process, the pair of them shall fall.

"I did not see this…" Rich admits, faintly, "I never saw this…"

"If you wish to play politics at its highest, and you did not anticipate the risk to your neck, Richard, then you have been as naïve a fool as I have ever seen. Did the deaths of Fisher and More not teach you the danger of this game?"

Then, suddenly, Rich is angry - furious, in fact, "They taught me how an act can haunt you for the rest of your days!" he hisses, "God help me, I put my mortal soul at risk! I broke the ninth commandment: I bore false witness, and at _your_ behest! And you think I have forgotten that? More haunts me in my sleep, damn you! He chases after me and demands to know why I betrayed him, and I cannot answer him as he pushes me into the devil's fire!"

Cromwell stares at him, surprised. The one thing that had bemused him about Rich was his apparent lack of remorse for his perjury at both Fisher's and More's trials: for once, he has managed to keep his true feelings from others.

"I can only ask that you forgive me." He says, eventually, "I would not have wished to place you in such a position had there been any other way. The King wills, the King must have. The price must therefore be borne by others - and as much by me as by you, for I did much the same against the late Queen Anne."

"Do you think More and Fisher have forgiven me?" Rich asks, quietly.

"Yes." Cromwell says, equally quietly. From what he knows of the two men who died for their principles, he knows that they would not have gone to their deaths without clearing their consciences - and that would include forgiving those who wronged them. At least - he hopes that to be so, for he is just as much in need of such forgiveness.

Rich straightens up, "Then what shall we do?" his voice firmer now. Cromwell decides to ignore his colleague's failure to offer the forgiveness that he sought.

"Be as useful as we can be, and otherwise keep out of the King's way." Cromwell admits as they continue on their journey, "We are not military commanders, and it is now for them to take steps to quell this rising. I shall have to reprimand Legh again, I think - for he does not carry out his actions with the degree of courtesy and fairness that I demanded. The King's demand to end the abuses of the great monastic houses was always going to cause animosity to some degree or other - for how are the uneducated to know of the manifest sin that occurs within those walls?"

Within two days, a letter has dispatched north to the commanders of the rising - for commanders there are, even if they be nothing but a Monk and a Shoemaker. Layton continues to send reports south: The rising is not, as the King claims, an ungoverned rabble - they are instead surprisingly disciplined - and are now in Lincoln, where they have been welcomed. Layton observes, however, that the nobles who _did_ support the rising are now realising just what they have to lose if they continue to be associated with the commons, particularly as the Duke of Suffolk is mobilising troops to move against them. He has, as is expected, granted them time to withdraw from the rising, with the promise that the King shall consider their grievances. The offer has also, to some degree, worked, for most have melted away back to their shires, significantly reducing the number of rebels still in the City.

"His Majesty has made it clear," Cromwell says to the King's Secretary, reading a copy of a letter already dispatched, "that those who remain in Lincoln shall have no mercy granted to them. The entire number of them shall die if they remain."

"So you think they shall disperse now, then?" Wriothesley asks, from his own desk.

Cromwell sighs with relief, and nods, "I think so. They would be mad to stay - for Suffolk is already on the move, and shall wreak havoc on any who are still present when he reaches Lincoln. I think all is now done, and we are safe."

He looks up as a Steward enters the offices with another letter, which he takes. Breaking the seal, he opens the paper, and Wriothesley stares at him, startled, as his face falls.

"What is it, my Lord?"

"It is not done." Cromwell says, suddenly sounding very, very tired, "It seems then, that we are also not safe."

* * *

 _My Lord Cromwell,_

 _Forgive my poor writing, for I am in great haste to impart this news to you. In the ending of the rising in Lincolnshire, I fear that another rebellion has begun to form - but this time in Yorkshire._

 _I have it on good authority that the rising there is to be led by a well-born Lawyer, Mr Robert Aske, who already calls their rebellion a Pilgrimage, in order perhaps to disguise its intent. He is, I fear, a far more capable leader than those who were at the head of the rebels in Lincolnshire, and demands the highest standards of behaviour from those who have answered the call to his banner - which I am told bears the five wounds of Christ upon it._

 _They are keen to distance themselves from any suggestion that His Majesty is the focus of their discontent - instead placing all blame upon those who advise him, though the principal of these claimed malefactors would be you, my Lord, and Mr Rich, for your actions against the Religious Houses, and the practise of their Popish faith._

 _Where the Lincolnshire rebels were a gathering in haste, these are well organised and are well armed. I fear that his Grace's troops would not be even close to sufficient in numbers to meet them in the Field. For God's sake, my Lord, act quickly, for I am certain that, should this gathering move south, it shall grow only greater, and none shall stand against them._

 _T Legh._

 _Damn him_. Cromwell thinks, furiously, for Legh has, once again, spouted only panic, and has said nothing of the demands of the mob. How is he to take this to the King? But then, the use of the term 'Pilgrimage' suggests an obvious religious slant, which means that their demands must reflect those of the Lincolnshire rebels.

Just when the dust was starting to settle, and he could return to that wretched investigation again…

"What is it? Another rebellion?" Rich skids to a halt at his desk. Cromwell does not answer, but the glance he gives, his eyes slowly rising to meet Rich's are answer enough, "God help us. What are we to tell the King?"

* * *

"Another rising?" Henry's voice is strident once more, as they face him with the news, " _Another_ one? What is it with these people? Do they not see that I am acting in their interests?"

"It would appear not." Cromwell says, guardedly, "The Lawyer Aske is a capable orator, and his learned background is more than sufficient to convince the commons that he acts in their interests with the intent of convincing your Majesty that you have been ill advised and merely need to be… _prompted_ …to remove that which they see as the impediment to your returning to previous policies and, I presume, re-submitting yourself to the authority of the Vicar of Rome."

It is a risk to make such a suggestion, but he is prepared to make it in order to keep his head on his neck. There is no possible way that Henry would accept that his actions have triggered such a response from his people - and the only person he shall blame is Cromwell. Best, then, to attempt to divert that back against Aske, and imply that the intention is to demand the one thing that the King shall not abide - submission to a higher human authority than his own. Beside him, Rich is silent, not daring to risk tangling up the careful web that Cromwell is weaving.

"And what of the rabble that follow him?" Henry snaps, still fuming.

"It…er…it appears…" Cromwell struggles to find words that will cast their actions in a bad light, and fails, "…it appears that Aske is demanding that they swear a binding oath against their eternal damnation that they shall behave properly - I understand, however, that not all are doing so…"

"He's demanding _oaths_ from them? Damn him! Damn his soul to hell! It is _my_ prerogative to demand oaths from my subjects, not some damned common lawyer! God help him, for I shall see him pay for his damned bloody presumption!" It seems that he has not needed to cast the taking of oaths in a bad light - for Henry has seen the act itself as a usurpation of his royal prerogative.

Obviously raging, Henry waves the two away, "Send in Norfolk! And Shrewsbury! I refuse to grant any quarter to these damned rebels, they are not pilgrims - they are rebels! _Rebels_ , damn them!"

He is still shouting as they depart. Cromwell knows, without having to look, that Rich is trembling, still unused to being the focus of a true rage from his King. Being regularly in the King's sights, Cromwell has no such concerns - and instead is more interested in maintaining their collective safety. He knows, from seeing it happen to others, that the King's rage can, if not managed carefully, lead on to incarceration and death. He has no intention, none whatsoever, to stand upon a scaffold.

As October draws to a close, however, Cromwell feels a sense of cold nerves that his determination to keep himself from the block might not be enough. Pontefract Castle - a royal garrison - has now fallen to the rebels. That it was in no state to withstand a siege even for so much as a day is immaterial. It is a royal holding, and it is now in Aske's hands. More than anything else, it is a real coup for the so-called Pilgrims - and his only hope is that the King shall continue to view their actions as a foul rebellion. Otherwise, he might well decide that they are right in their claim that he has been ill advised, and ill led…

Irked, he snuffs out the last of the candles in the office chambers. It is late, and time he was abed.

Elsewhere in the Palace, one candle still burns, " _Alack, alack!_ " Kat declaims grandly as she nestles beside Rich, " _For the Church sake, poor commons wake, and no marvel! For clear it is, the decay of this, how the poor shall miss._ "

He groans, "Do you have to read that doggerel?"

"Of course I do," she smiles at him, "Is it not amusing?"

"Courtesy of the displaced Monks of Sawley Abbey, if Layton is to be believed."

"I like this verse," she smiles, " _Crim, Cram and Rich, with three 'L' and the lich, as some men teach. God them amend! And that Aske may, without delay, here make a stay and well to end!_ You are famous, Richie!"

"Infamous, more like." He grumbles, "It seems there is no end to their inventiveness."

"Perhaps you should give them their skull back."

He does not laugh, and she realises then that he is afraid, "What if the King hears their pleas, Kat?" He asks, "They have Pontefract - and they are more numerous than an ants nest - we do not have the troops to meet them in open combat. They see us - Cromwell and I - as the cause of all their ills, and they demand reparations."

"His Majesty's pride would never permit him to give in to the requirements of the commons, Richie - you know that." She sets the paper aside and lies closer to him, "And if they tried, I would scare them away by removing my veil."

This time he smiles, "I believe you would, too." Reaching out from the bed, he pinches out the candle, and then reaches for her.

* * *

The canvas of the tent flaps maddeningly in the autumn wind that ushers the last of the sodden leaves to depart from the trees and carpet the equally sodden earth. Seated in a chair that must be placed upon a wooden board in order not to sink into the wet ground, Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, reads troop manifests and scowls viciously. Opposite, Shrewsbury sighs inwardly, and waits for the inevitable comment.

"We have nowhere near enough troops to meet this rabble in the field."

"I agree," he admits, "at the last count, we had eight thousand men. They are at least five times that number."

They are still just to the north east of Nottingham, but with the Pilgrimage - as Aske insists upon calling it - soon to resume its southward march, they are likely to meet in the vicinity of Doncaster, and it is there that Norfolk hopes to not only find some means of stalling the rebellion, but also - if he can - undermine that damned raven Cromwell.

He has many reasons for hating the man - but mostly his base birth. To one as high-born as a Howard, the presence of a gutter-born Putney upstart with no noble blood is an affront; that Cromwell was so entirely involved in the downfall of his relatives is merely another reason to despise him. To bring him down, and thoroughly re-establish the primacy of the nobility over the commons would be the greatest of satisfactions.

That the policies he has implemented are the King's is of no interest - for the people blame Cromwell, and his almost as low-born cohort, Rich. If he, Howard, can ensure that the blame is kept there, and personally bring about the end of this insurrection, then they would be but one step from the Tower, and probably the block. A message of the strongest form that men such as they are not suitable creatures to be present in the highest Government of England.

Shrewsbury stares at Norfolk, bemused at the sudden change of expression from annoyance to a sense of anticipation, "What is upon your thoughts, your Grace?"

"Consequences, Shrewsbury." Howard says, "Only consequences."

"How are we to meet the rebels, then?"

"I have written to the King," he advises, "My letter advises that we are vastly outnumbered, and our only option is to negotiate. I think, with care, we may be able to turn matters to our advantage - for as far as I can tell, Aske has no interest in warfare. He is, after all a lawyer, not a soldier. Thus we make pretence that we are in sympathy with their demands, and suggest that they put them directly to the King. I have no doubt that he shall see where we are taking this - and act accordingly."

Shrewsbury nods, "You believe his Majesty shall use this to play for time, then?"

"I do. And, in that time, if we be fortunate, Aske's control of his rabble shall begin to falter - and so we shall be more in a position to crush them."

* * *

The King sits silently as Cromwell reads the letter to him. He broods for a while, "What do you suggest, Mr Cromwell?"

Cromwell wants, most heartily, to find some means of casting the words in the worst possible light - for his own survival rather depends upon it, but Howard has been wily, and he has no means of doing so, "I think we should do as his Grace suggests, Majesty."

"You do? You suggest that I parlay with these bastards?" the King's tone is dangerous.

"As his Grace advises, we do not have sufficient troops to meet Aske's insurrectionists in open battle, for they outnumber ours by a considerable margin. That said, with such numbers under his command, Aske has no military experience, and thus may well not understand the necessary logistical requirements of an army of that size - or the disciplinary requirements. The longer that they are obliged to wait, the more likely he is to lose control of them."

Henry nods, for he was almost certainly expecting Cromwell to try to shift blame, or find some criticism, "In that case, draft a letter for my signature outlining to Norfolk that he is to entreat with the rebels as he suggests, and to make their demands known to me. Once we know what they are, we shall be more able to act. He is ordered to do whatever he must in order to end this rebellion. He is, however, to make no promises upon my behalf. Is that clear?" he indicates that Cromwell leave to get on with the work.

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell nods, bows and departs.

"He has agreed to it." Norfolk advises Shrewsbury. They have now exchanged the draughty tents for a small manor that they have commandeered, "I shall ride out to meet Aske in two days, and so we shall see if we can commence his undoing."

Shrewsbury nods, and wonders if, in terms of 'undoing', Norfolk means Aske or Cromwell.

 _Majesty,_

 _On 27 of the Month October, I met with the leader of the Rebels, Mr Robert Aske upon Doncaster Bridge. I dissembled and claimed to be in sympathy with said rebellion, and offered suggestions that your Majesty might also be amenable to his requirements. In return for the dispatch of the rebels back to their shires, I have offered to escort - with all due promises of safety - a deputation of those who call themselves 'Pilgrims' to London to directly petition your Majesty._

 _It is hoped that we shall arrive in London by the second week of November. While I have been obliged to make promises to the rebels, be assured that I do not intend to keep any of them._

 _Norfolk_

Cromwell sets the letter down and waits for the King's response.

"So, they are coming, then." Henry glowers.

"Yes, Majesty."

"Despite my explicit orders, Norfolk made promises with them."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell pauses; with the threat as it is, petty politics will only reflect badly upon him once the dust has settled, "You did, however, order him to do what was necessary to end this insurrection. Perhaps this was the only option he saw open to him." He sees the King tense, and fights with himself not to flinch away from the expected blow.

Instead, Henry lets out a furious breath, "In which case, I shall see these traitors, and listen to their importuning. I am not, however, pleased with Norfolk. Perhaps he is more sympathetic to these rebels than he makes himself out to be. His family is, after all, solidly Catholic in its outlook."

This time, Cromwell says nothing.

* * *

That Aske has not come south himself is no surprise, for none of the leaders of the Rebellion are fool enough to place themselves directly in the hands of a King from whom they have no true assurance of safety. Instead, lesser lieutenants stand together nervously before Henry, and his Privy Councillors in the great hall at Whitehall while the Court looks on.

"Well?" Henry demands of the nervous men, "Speak! Why have you risen against your lawful King in vile rebellion?"

Swallowing quite visibly, the unfortunate who has been deputed to be their Spokesman, Sir Ralph Ellerker, steps forward one pace, "We beg you, your Majesty - it is not against your good Grace that we have commenced our Pilgrimage - for we seek only that you be freed from the insidious influence of your Councillors…"

"Councillors whom I have personally appointed, Sir Ralph." The King reminds him, ominously, "Are you questioning my judgement?"

"No, great Majesty, not at all…I assure your Majesty…" he stammers desperately, "we are your true and loyal subjects."

Rather than show any further temper, however, Henry sits back in his seat, "Of that, Sir Ralph, I have no doubt. For what King does not listen to the needs of his loyal people?"

Ellerker stares at him, startled at the sudden change in tone. Ignoring his confusion, Henry continues, "It is not my wish that my people endure hardship or discontent. Thus I tell you that I shall hear your petition - we shall meet in my Privy Chamber this afternoon."

The men exchange hopeful glances. Standing nearby, watching them, Cromwell knows that they have been fooled.

 _Norfolk,_

 _The rebels are to be escorted back to the North with best haste. I require them to clarify certain points in their petition - and thus have suggested that Aske and his leaders submit their demands clearly and in writing. In the meantime, as before, I order you to do what you must to end the rebellion by whatever means you consider to be necessary. At the first opportunity, you shall crush them._

 _HR_

His expression wolfish, Norfolk crumples the rough paper upon which the missive has been scrawled in the King's own handwriting, and drops it in the fire.


	7. Autumn Manoeuvrings

**A/N:** Thank you to Anne for the kind review, I'm so glad you enjoy these stories. In honour of your hopes for more, here is another chapter!

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

 _Advent Manoeuvrings_

Rich stares at the papers pinned to the walls of their investigation room. He is not sure whether he is revisiting the evidence in hope of finding something that they have missed, or he is hiding. The Council have received a letter from Norfolk enclosing the demands of the Yorkshire 'Pilgrims', and they are now being considered by the King.

He looks up as the door opens to admit Cromwell, who nods in greeting and joins him at the table, "I think that what we do not know is unlikely to resolve into that which we do by the mere act of staring, Richard."

"I do not think that I have even seen the words upon the papers." He admits, quietly.

Cromwell nods, sympathetically. Norfolk has agreed with the Rebels that, if they disband, the King shall receive their demands, a freely elected parliament shall be called in York to discuss them, and all those who call themselves 'Pilgrims' shall be pardoned for their actions. The demands arrived this morning - 24 articles, of which the eighth makes a particularly uncomfortable demand.

 _Lord Cromwell and Sir Richard Rich to have condign punishment, as subverters of the good laws of the realm and maintainers and inventors of heretics_.

"They demand that we receive punishment commensurate to our crimes, Thomas." Rich sounds fearful, "Given the crimes of which they accuse us, that can only mean the block - or worse."

Cromwell shakes his head, "Almost none of the articles shall be treated with seriousness, Richard. Besides, those who submitted this document have not remotely considered the welfare or wellbeing of the commons - and the articles bear that out. As I hear it, none of base-blood were permitted to attend the discussions that formulated them." He pauses, "That said, I think it would be worth reconsidering the Statute of Uses - for there are too many holes in it for it to freely prevent fraud."

"And if his Majesty decides that it would be sensible to offer scapegoats to calm the ire of the commons?"

"Those who shall die at his demand shall be those who rose against him, not those who stood at his side to withstand the onslaught, Richard. Even now, Aske believes he has won a great victory against us - for the King has invited him to London over Christmastide in order to apprise him of the true feelings of the commons, to ensure that his Majesty's future policies shall not inconvenience them overmuch."

"Aske is coming _here_?" Rich is shocked, "And you imply that he has _not_ won a great victory?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "Far from it - for his Majesty has no interest in obtaining anything other than more names of those who stood with Aske, and followed his lead. If he can gull Aske into believing that he has the King's favour, then it is his hope that the poor man shall give him all, and thus carry all his Pilgrims into a great punishment." Despite all, he does not sound proud of such an outcome, "How strange it is that all the King's great matters seem to end in the lavish spilling of blood."

"As long as it is not mine." Rich grumbles, and resumes his perusal of the dusty, curling sheets of paper on the walls.

* * *

Aske's arrival at Court is a surprisingly sumptuous affair, with the giving of fine gifts, a warm welcome and a large feast to celebrate his arrival. His expression is one of fascination, excitement and joy - for he truly believes that he has won the King's heart without the shedding of blood, and now all shall be mended. That he is being played falsely does not enter his honest head.

Sitting nearby as Aske is feted, Cromwell sighs inwardly. He has no direct argument with the man receiving such a hearty welcome from his King; his only interest is in carrying out the King's demands as swiftly and efficiently as possible, after all. Instead, he keeps his sadness hidden, and stands with the aloof dignity that would be expected from him as a supposedly defeated opponent. He has no doubt that Aske expects his dismissal before the end of the year. He also has no doubt that Aske shall be entirely incorrect in his expectation. Despite all, he has trodden most carefully, and thus has retained the favour of the King rather more fully than even he anticipated.

"Be seated, Mr Aske!" Henry declaims with much jollity, "Join with us as we celebrate our Advent feasting, and know that you are most welcome to my Court!" he begins to clap, prompting the entire Court to break into rather halting applause. Remarkably, this does not faze Aske who - rather charmingly - is taking all at face value.

"Tomorrow, you shall meet my son," He burbles on, all sweetness and joy, "Henry Fitzroy, for he is to return for the Christmastide feast. I have also," He adds, not entirely confidentially, "invited the Lady Mary to return to Court to celebrate with us."

Cromwell sighs inwardly: nothing could be more calculated to cheer Aske than that, for she is the subject of the third of the twenty four articles - they require her to be re-legitimised. What better way to win Aske's trust than though her? In the midst of Henry's fearful rages and misbehaviour, Cromwell has almost forgotten how wily the King can be when the situation demands - and he is receiving as much of a show of it as the rest of the Court. Unlike the rest of the Court, however, he shall mark it, and beware it.

Besides, with the impending return of Fitzroy, that same old problem is about to rear its head; for, with all that has been going on, Cromwell has not had the time to even consider the ongoing issue of legitimising the Prince. It must be done, that is true; but with another Queen in the King's bed, and the ever present hope that she shall conceive, the promises that Henry makes to his bastard son could well prove to be hollow if she bears a boy. He has no doubt at all that, should Queen Jane indeed bring a son into the succession, the King shall probably forget his bastard child, and devote all his attention to his legitimate one - even if Fitzroy's legitimacy is established.

With that dilemma suddenly back on the table again, Cromwell now has a third problem to tax his efficiency and skill. Not only the demands of Aske and his 'Pilgrims', but also the death of Anne Hamme, and now the legal requirement to legitimise a bastard son while there is still the possibility of a son of the blood being born. Once again, Cromwell wishes that he had not put such extensive effort into proving himself indispensable.

The King invites Aske through to the Privy Chamber, leaving all outside in the Presence Chamber to their own devices. No longer required, Cromwell hastens back to the offices to burrow through his files in search of his drafts of the bill for Fitzroy's status. _I do not have time for this_ …

"Are you overly busy, Mr Rich?" He asks, as Rich returns as well, "I should most appreciate some additional expertise in this dilemma of Fitzroy's legitimacy."

Rich snorts with mild amusement, "I take it you are endeavouring to ensure that Fitzroy's rights do not supersede those of a son of Queen Jane?"

"Truly - for his Majesty's promises far outstrip the sensible course of law. He seems not to see that England would never accept Fitzroy over a son of the Queen, for he was born out of wedlock far more truly than either of his half-sisters. Their mothers had rings upon their fingers, and Crowns upon their heads."

"Fitzroy is his first son," Rich reminds him, "Both you and I are fortunate to have been blessed with sons, even though ours are legitimate. Would you not do all that you could do - even to the sacrifice of your life - for the aid and benefit of your son?"

Cromwell looks up, startled, for he cannot imagine such an emotion from Rich - but he knows that his colleague cannot hide strong feelings, and sees only sincerity from Rich's eyes. He is, however, right. There is not one single thing that Cromwell would not do if he needed to for the sake of Gregory - as Rich would for Hugh, his firstborn.

To the surprise of the Clerks, who are still unused to the thaw in their working relations, the two sit down together at Cromwell's desk and start to work their way through the clauses that he has drafted. Rich's knowledge of the law outstrips Cromwell's, which is already extensive. Between them, they spend an interesting - and occasionally argumentative - afternoon revising the first draft to ensure that, no matter what happens, Fitzroy shall receive his legitimacy and a place in the succession, but not at the expense of a full-blood son from Queen Jane, or any sons who might follow. No matter how much Henry might wish it, Fitzroy must not receive the Principality of Wales. That is the sole prerogative of the King's firstborn son - which, in terms of legitimacy, Fitzroy is not. Nor can he receive the Dukedom of York, for that is the sole prerogative of the King's second born son - which, in terms of legitimacy, Fitzroy is not. Instead, he shall be named Duke of Gloucester - claiming back the dukedom from its previous links to the dead Richard Crookback, and it shall be considered a Royal Dukedom, for it shall be held by a Prince of the Blood. Thus, Cromwell hopes, they shall avoid the awkwardness that might arise if the Queen should bear a boy, or even two. There is, after all, always that hope - and Henry would be mightily vexed if he heard it sounded about that he is not capable of bearing more than one son.

"Do you think he shall like this?" Rich asks, as Cromwell sets the paper down.

"No." Cromwell admits, "But if we are to ensure the rights of a legitimate son, then he shall have to. I should very much rather his Majesty waited until after Queen Jane has borne him a son, but we both know that the King's Grace is hardly known for his patience."

Rich sits back with a sigh. Cromwell is, of course, right. Both of them know that it is not unusual for a King _in extremis_ to legitimise a bastard or, failing that, adopt a son to carry on the line - but where would that leave a son of Queen Jane? It is a risk they must take - and hope that they do not cause too much of a tantrum when they present it.

* * *

Robert Aske's eyes are wide and astounded as he sits at a table thronged by the most powerful men in the land. From his station a few seats to the left and opposite, Cromwell watches him - careful to avoid Aske seeing him do so. _Honest men are doomed in this place_ , he thinks to himself, for it is clear to him that Aske is nothing less than a decent man who wants only the best for those he represents, and perhaps even dreams that he shall save his King from what he believes to be errors into which his Majesty has been guided by unscrupulous advisers. He has learned from long experience that honour has no place at the Court of Henry of England - it does nothing to aid, and nothing to protect, those who hold their principles above all - as Fisher and More discovered to their cost. He imagines that he was once an honourable man - with principles and a willingness to uphold them; but they were crushed long ago in the never-ending game of political survival at which he has become so adept. Liz would probably despise the man he has become - for he accepts bribes, creates false evidence to destroy those whom the King wishes destroyed, and is even now watching silently as an innocent, principled man walks faithfully into a deadly trap that shall end his hopes, and probably also his life.

No. It does not do to be principled. Not at this table.

Aske is seated at the right hand of the King's chair - a singular honour, and as all present rise to greet his Majesty, his bow is deeper even than the bows of those who surround him. There is no pride in Aske's actions - he knows his right to be here is a remarkable gift - and he clearly does not see the true reality of a poisoned chalice. Even as he bows too, Cromwell finds himself pitying the poor idiot who thinks that trust still lives in England.

"My Lords," The King commences, "I bid welcome to Mr Robert Aske, who has come to us to aid us in our endeavours to ensure that the good people of my realm are not importuned by our future actions for the benefit of England. Thus, I expect you all to consider him well, and ensure that we are able to entreat with all who share his concerns in order to spread our knowledge as widely as it can be spread."

 _Does he not see the double meaning in those words?_ Cromwell thinks, as Aske beams joyfully - thinking that he has won the King's favour, _he is being asked to betray all who share his protests - and he thinks himself to be benefiting the people of England by his words. How can a lawyer be so utterly naïve?_

Gradually, the King draws out more and more names, assigning them to the various Lords at the table as though he intends them to take responsibility for interviewing them for their grievances. He is not, however, fool enough to push too hard, and ends the meeting rather earlier than he needs to - on the grounds that he feels it right that both he and Aske should attend to their devotions together. Delighted, and still all unaware, Aske smiles politely at the assembled Lords, and the two depart together.

"He has not the first idea, has he?" Rich murmurs as he and Cromwell gather their papers.

"None." Cromwell does not look happy, "Am I alone in thinking that, in spite of all, we are making cruel use of a man's honesty and trust?"

"You are not." Rich admits, "Even though it be a truly remarkable object lesson by the King, I still feel that we are dishonest and cynical in the face of Aske's faith and belief in his Majesty's love. If it were not essential to end the insurrection, I would wish to have no part of it."

Cromwell looks up to see that Suffolk, back at the table now that Norfolk and Shrewsbury are in the North, is looking at them quizzically. Brandon has no liking for either of them - Cromwell knows that full well - but he can see that neither of them are revelling in Aske's willing saunter into the King's trap, something that he would have expected from them. Rather than speak, or show acknowledgement of his confusion, instead Cromwell turns to depart for the offices, Rich in tow, and leaves the Duke sitting at the council table.

As evening draws in, the news has spread all about the Court: Fitzroy has returned, and shall be greeted in grand style at a large feast tonight. For the Councillors, attendance is expected, which irks Rich, as he had intended to sup with Kat. Furthermore, not only is Fitzroy returning, but so is the Lady Mary. None but Cromwell are aware that she has already met with Queen Jane, and her father - or that the initial meeting was a remarkable success. Mary is still young enough - just - to need the presence of a mother, and has taken to Jane a great deal. That Jane has few reformist leanings has probably assisted in the thawing of relations, but nonetheless it is a major coup for her, and has certainly secured her popularity outside the Palace.

It has not, however, smoothed over one considerable ruffling of feathers. Upon returning to Whitehall, Mary has discovered, to her disgust, that her bastard half-brother has been granted the rooms that have always been reserved for the Prince of Wales. Being, until the end of her mother's marriage, treated - albeit in name only - as the Princess of Wales in her own right, the discovery that these rooms are to be occupied by Fitzroy has caused her much offence. Having been involved in neither the assignment of the rooms, nor the soothing of a truly royal outburst, Cromwell is grateful to have been relieved of any blame for the situation - not that she didn't try to set it at his door. Mary has certainly inherited her father's imperious temper, and there are few things for which she is not prepared to attempt to hold him responsible - for she no longer has Queen Anne to blame.

Rather than inspire yet more bile on Mary's part, Cromwell has opted to remain in the Offices, or their investigation room, as much as possible to avoid her. As with Aske, he has no particular reason to dislike her, and he has never bothered with the holding of grudges - something else for which he simply does not have time - so instead he opts to stabilise her equilibrium through the simple expedient of not provoking her anger though his mere presence.

The papers on the wall are curling up even more now, and one or two have parted company with it as the tacks have slipped from the plaster. He hates to fail - and each day that passes leaves him ever less able to track down the one who killed Anne Hamme. Their one suspect is hardly a real suspect at all, for he has no motive to act with such surgical brutality - not when he is more adept at using his fists. There is nothing to build upon. Nothing at all.

At least he has been somewhat more successful with the drafting of the bill to legitimise Fitzroy. With Rich's invaluable help, he has created a document that solves the problem of what to do with the youth once he is legitimate - for he must have some Royal presence, and thus shall be created a Prince - but the difficulties surrounding his status in the peerage had seemed so insurmountable given the continued uncertainty as to whether or not the Queen shall conceive.

"Gloucester?" Henry said, when he presented the bill yesterday, "An excellent choice - for what else of Crookback's should we take but that? As he took the throne, so we take his Royal Dukedom. And, if it comes down to it, once my boy is legitimate, should it become necessary to do so, I can still invest him as Prince of Wales."

Cromwell groans inwardly at the memory. Despite his determination to prevent any risk of the King accidentally setting a precedent with Fitzroy that he might not later be able to undo, Henry seems keen to dash headlong into such a situation - blinded by the presence of a living son to carry on his name. That his mother's name was Blount, not Tudor, seems immaterial. His Majesty's inability to be patient once again placing his Lord Privy Seal in the awkward position of trying to rein him in without showing it.

The darkness outside the room, coupled with the growling of his stomach persuades him that he has spent enough time perusing pointlessly. Pinching out the candle, he locks the door behind him and departs in search of something to eat.

* * *

"Don't you believe it, Richie. The Lady Mary is, despite outward appearances, quite put out by Fitzroy's appropriation of the rooms she considers to be hers." Kat advises as she shares supper with Rich, who has, until now, assumed that the former Princess is quite happy to be back at Court, "She has her father's temper, but her mother's wisdom not to show it too much."

"It must be hard for her." Rich admits, reaching for a cup of claret.

"Utterly." Kat agrees, "Her father's love seems to be dependent upon her bowing to his will, crushing her own pride and swearing to beliefs that she does not share. It seems cruel to me that a father should demand a price from his child in order to receive his love."

Rich cannot help but cringe inside, for his own children see little of him - though he writes to them frequently even if he does not maintain extensive contact with this wife. Regardless of his failing regard for Lisbet, his children are of the highest importance to him, and he takes the greatest care to ensure that he is kept informed of their exploits, "I would never, ever demand a price from my children for my love." He sighs, "Though I am a hypocrite to say so - for when do I see them?"

"At least they know that you love them. Mary cannot be certain of that - for the King's love for her seems to come and go, based upon the woman to whom he is married. It was, regardless of what others say, Anne who took steps to set her aside along with her mother, and Anne who ensured that she was all but forced into servitude to the then Princess Elizabeth. Regardless of her better qualities, she had the capacity to be remarkably vindictive when protecting her own child. I suppose that must be the mark of a fiercely loving mother."

She sighs, for the damage to her prospects as a wife have done much to kill her hopes of motherhood. The destruction of her face has left her with nothing but a succession of lovers, all of whom abandoned her once they saw under her veil; even now - in the arms of the one man who has not - she has not been blessed to conceive in over a year. Given that his wife has managed to bear a child during that time - from one of the occasions upon which he has felt obliged to return to her to undertake his conjugal duties as a husband - she knows that it is not Rich who is at fault. Perhaps the pox has left her barren, too.

He reaches across to take her hand, and she squeezes his in return, "Perhaps it is for the best." She adds, "For it is rumoured amongst the women that the Lady Mary despises Fitzroy's elevation over her - for in her mind she is a true-born Princess of the Blood, while he is the bastard of one of her father's many mistresses. That he sees it too, and revels in it, does nothing to ease the situation."

"He does?" Rich asks.

"Naturally. He is seventeen, spoiled and treated as a favoured firstborn son despite his bastardy. How could his head not have been puffed up with his own importance? The King worships him - even he knows that. To Mary, he is the Golden Child even as Elizabeth was not - for in the King's eyes, he does no wrong and is not required to make any concessions in the hopes of winning back his father's love, nor does he need to fear that it might one day be withdrawn again."

Rich shudders at the thought. Despite that vague air of disappointment that he always sensed from his father, and the strictness of his upbringing, he had never, ever thought that he was not loved. To be so adrift…God, who would want to be so beholden to the whims of a royal father?

His grip tightens upon Kat's hand, and he looks at her, his eyes laden with meaning. If only he could just _say_ it…but he cannot. Instead, she lingers in his gaze, taking in the words he still cannot speak, then smiles as he rises to lead her through to the bedchamber.

* * *

Carefully dodging a rickety looking ladder, Cromwell makes his way through the preparations for Christmastide with remarkable aplomb given the appalling mess about him. Wreaths and boughs of fir are being carefully attached to sconces and arranged over the window arches, while garlands of dried fruits, holly and mistletoe are arranged across window ledges. Above, swags of gold and silver tinsel are arranged, and fresh candles are being set. Advent is drawing to its close, and all at Court wait with excitement for the festivities to come.

The list of names that the King has so carefully extracted from Robert Aske is astonishingly extensive, and already Cromwell has been tasked with securing information on their whereabouts so that, when the time comes to strike, Norfolk and Shrewsbury can be decisive. That said, the King is surprisingly uncertain about Norfolk's loyalties, for Aske seems utterly convinced that the Duke has absolute sympathy with their cause - so much so that even Henry is wondering. Knowing Howard's determination to bring him down, Cromwell has no intention of disabusing the King of such a thought - no matter whether or not it be true - and pretends that he knows nothing of Howard's loyalties at all.

While the bill to secure Fitzroy's future is prepared, and there is nothing to prevent the King granting his assent, Cromwell is still determined to try and persuade his Majesty to permit Parliament to debate it - for something as great as this should not merely be decided by the stroke of a pen. With the tiresome youth back at court, the King's mood is so merry that Cromwell is prepared to take the risk of stirring his Majesty's wrath in order to secure that tactic. While it would hold things up still further, it would also render the final assent absolutely unimpeachable. That, if nothing else, should hopefully secure the King's agreement.

As long, of course, as Henry does not give the game away.

The King is dining with Aske again, who is still quite convinced that he is the guest of the wisest, most gracious prince in Christendom. Being as capable an actor as the best of them, Cromwell does nothing to show that he pities the deceived rebel, or that he feels any antagonism towards his grievances, bowing politely to both men, "Forgive my intrusion, your Majesty, Mr Aske," he says politely, "I have brought the final draft of the bill to legitimise the Duke of Richmond."

At once, Aske rises, and bows, "Then, with your Majesty's permission, I shall withdraw."

Smiling, the King nods, and watches as Aske departs. As soon as he has gone, the smile drops: "Fool." Then he turns to Cromwell, "Show me."

Bowing again, Cromwell sets the vellum sheets down before the King, "I think, Majesty, to make all secure, we should set this before Parliament and obtain the votes of the Commons and Lords together. With that, none could possibly strike down your will in any form, for it has been agreed by all."

He pauses, hoping that he has not triggered an explosion.

"I think you are right, Mr Cromwell." The King says, after an unnervingly long wait, "While I am eager that my boy should come into his rightful inheritance as soon as he may; given the behaviour of foreign princes over the legitimacy of the Lady Mary, I think this should be _absolutely_ secure. Set this before the next Parliament and ensure that it is given their fullest attention at the first opportunity."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell bows again, careful to hide his relief. With luck, the wrangling should keep matters in abeyance for at least another half year. Perhaps then, the Queen might conceive, and thus hold things back even further while all wait to see what she bears.

The King waves him away, and he withdraws.

"What did he say?" Rich asks, as he returns to the Offices. With the holiday so near, most of the Clerks have departed to spend the holiday with their families, and they are alone.

"He agreed, Richard. Thus we have some time. God, I hope that her Majesty conceives while the wrangling is going on. It would make life much easier for us if we no longer had to second-guess the fates."

"At least we have the Christmastide festival to hold things up." Rich adds, rather more cheerfully, "From tomorrow, there shall be no working for twelve days, and all we need do is spend hours in endless masses and then fill ourselves up with victuals until we are fit to burst."

"That might be your plan, Richard," Cromwell smiles, sitting at his desk to clear it of scattered papers, "I shall be at Austin Friars with my extended family. What of you?"

Rich looks a little embarrassed, "I have dispatched gifts and letters to Felsted, as Lisbet is currently residing there." He admits, "I intend to remain at Court."

Cromwell nods, but does not comment. He knows why, "I shall not, however, depart until the morrow." He says, instead, "I think that it seems most appropriate to commence the festivities early and do as you suggest - though I shall not eat until I am fit to burst."

They draw no stares now as they walk together to the Hall, for all have grown quite bored of making snide comments upon their apparent turnaround from enmity to friendship. Instead, they take their seats at the tables where the Privy Councillors are permitted to sit, and await the arrival of the Royal Family - which shall herald the first remove.

Despite her apparent failure to provide him with a son - yet again - Queen Jane is beside her husband as though she has produced a fulsome brood of boys, and is magnificently dressed in cloth of gold and radiant with jewels. Behind them, his expression haughty and proud at his elevated state, Fitzroy marches as though the Crown is already atop his head. Rich is suddenly reminded of Kat's words - yes, he is indeed spoiled, and certainly views the world as being his for the taking.

And then, behind Fitzroy, is the Lady Mary, her expression a strange mixture of pride and sour temper. All know that, really, if he were truly a Gentleman and a Prince, Fitzroy should be escorting her - but it seems that his pride is too great to allow him to accompany a despised girl whose bastardy, unlike his, was declared in her later childhood, rather than a known fact from the moment of her birth. Standing beside Rich, Cromwell sighs inwardly at her misfortune. Who knows what degree of anger and spite is being laid down in her, and how that shall one day perhaps emerge? In some ways he hopes that he shall not be around to see it. Maybe the King shall have allowed him to retire by then.

As soon as the Family are seated, Fitzroy to the King's right, Mary to the Queen's left, the King welcomes all to the feast, including Aske, who has been granted a place at the King's table - a singular mark of honour, "Welcome, my Lords, and Ladies! As the feast of Advent comes to its end, and the celebrations of Christ's birth are set to begin, let us give thanks for those who are dear to us, for is God not good to us all in his gifts? I swear to you all, that, by the New Year, you shall at last have your prince!"

A gasp goes about the room - how can this be possible? For Jane is clearly not pregnant, and, if she were, would she not be in confinement by now?

As bemused as everyone, Rich turns to see Cromwell slump a little, and realises what is coming.

"I intend, my friends, to make my fine boy Henry my true son, and heir!" He turns and bows to Fitzroy, who is equally upon his feet, bowing in return. As he sits again, however, few can fail to see the ghastly smugness on the spoilt youth's face, or the sour anger that Mary is fighting with all she has to keep from hers, "Now, let us feast!" the King finishes, indicating the rasp of trumpets that fanfare in the first remove, before sitting to await the victuals that shall be set before him.

Reaching for a leg of capon, Rich turns to Cromwell, who seems now to have lost his appetite, "What? We knew it was coming - he was going to find out sooner or later."

"And when is the next Parliament to sit?" Cromwell grumbles, crossly, "Until the bill is passed and assented, we shall not have a new prince - and if the Queen conceives, we shall not have one until after she has given birth. What on earth are we supposed to do now? There is no legal way to name Fitzroy a prince by the New Year."

Rich shrugs, chewing away at a mouthful of capon. It is, after all, not his problem. Besides, he intends to see Kat this evening, for she never attends such functions. She cannot eat without lifting her veil, and then all about her claim that they are put off their food, so she naturally avoids the humiliation.

Rinsing his hands, he bids Cromwell a good night, for he does not wish Kat to sup alone. John has - as he expects - set out victuals for them, but Kat is not present. As he is late - as usual - he is surprised. Is the Countess ill again?

After half an hour, he decides not to wait any longer, and leaves a note on the table in case she arrives while he is gone. Perhaps she is still in her quarters - though he hopes that she is not ill. That would be most unfortunate at this time of the year. Such is their familiarity, that he no more knocks upon her door before entering than she does upon his, and thus he is entirely unprepared for the sight that confronts him.

"Christ have mercy!"

Startled, Kat turns to look at him, her expression one of dismay, "God forbid, Richie - I did not want you to see me like this!"

"What on earth has happened to your hair? You look as though kittens have been fighting in a wool basket atop your head!"

She stands up a little, and he can see the cause of the problem, "It's this damned headdress," She complains, "I wanted to look exotic."

"As opposed to unexpected?" he asks, starting to laugh.

"It is not amusing, Richard!" she snaps back at him.

"I think it is." He disagrees, still laughing as he approaches her to help her remove the intricate web of gold chains from the tangled mess. By the time he has helped her to free herself from its almost determined refusal to let her go, she is laughing with him.

"Help me into a hood," she says, breathless from her mirth, "I am not ready yet to sleep - for I am eager for news from the Hall. Did the King do as we expected?"

He is not surprised at her knowledge, "If you mean Fitzroy, then yes. Thomas is most disgruntled, for he hopes to delay it as long as he can."

She carefully tucks the matted hair out of sight under her hood and attaches her veil, "Why?"

He does not answer her as they walk back to his quarters, for there are people about, and he has no wish to offer confidential opinions in their hearing. Instead, he seats her at the table, where the food has not got as cold as he expected, and pours her a cup of riesling, for she prefers it to claret, "He is fearful that the King may forget that a son of a Queen should be higher in the succession than the son of a Mistress." He admits, as he offers Kat frumenty, "For that reason, Thomas has taken great care to ensure that the bill is debated by Parliament. That shall not happen until the spring at the earliest, but tonight his Majesty declared to all that we shall have a prince by the New Year."

"I see." Kat nods, "That is indeed a dilemma. Fitzroy, I imagine, has had his opinion of himself greatly inflated by this?"

"He certainly looked rather pleased with himself."

"I do not think he shall make a good Prince, Richie." Kat murmurs, "He is too proud of himself, and he is too much of a stranger to censure."

"We are not given the grace to choose our Princes, Kat." Rich reminds her, "That is the prerogative of God, for they are His anointed rulers upon the Earth, are they not?"

"I do not think God has chosen him." Kat says, darkly, "If He had, why was he not born the son of Queen Katherine?"

He does not chide her for her opinion, for he has learned to value her words. Besides, deep down, he knows that, in some ways, she is right. If God chooses princes, then why did He not choose Fitzroy? He sighs, and sets his knife down. He has eaten well, and it is another hunger that is gnawing at him now. Smiling at him as she finishes the last of her riesling, Kat rises from her chair and allows him to claim her.


	8. Christmas Blood

CHAPTER EIGHT

 _Christmas Blood_

The weather is unseasonably warm, and there has been no frost for several days. Seated astride his Chestnut gelding, Cromwell departs Whitehall with some relief, for despite his nearness to his home, he is rarely free to escape there for more than a single night at a time. Today, however, he intends to remain with his extended family until the feast of St Stephen - a mere two days, admittedly, but still better than a single night now and then. Best of all, he shall have some time with the only link he still has to Liz, for Gregory shall be back from Cambridge again.

Her shade seems to flit alongside him as the horse clatters with sprightly steps past Charing Cross towards the Strand. There are few times when he permits himself to think of her for more than a passing moment, but today he is happy to bathe in the memories of their time together. As long as he forgets - just for a while - the man that he has become, he can imagine that he still warrants the love she gave him; for she shall never lose his, even though she is no longer with him. At least, however, he still has something of her - for Gregory has her eyes, and thus she looks upon him from the face of their son. Revelling in the times that he so rarely permits himself to recall, he is happily oblivious of all that he has left behind. That can wait until he is obliged to return - and instead he looks forward to the welcome he shall receive at Austin Friars.

In his quarters, far from the children he misses, and the wife he does not, Rich sits by the fire and reads; something he has had little time to do over the last few weeks. With Aske safely wrapped up in the King's false friendship, the danger of rebellion has receded - though he still has mild palpitations over the eighth of the articles presented by the so-called Pilgrims. When he had accepted the post of Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations, it had never occurred to him that to do so might place his neck at risk. Even now, despite the lull, he still feels an uncertain nervousness that the King might be sincere in his overtures to Aske, and it is Cromwell and he that are being played false.

Up on the overmantel, a rather fine little clock that cost a ridiculous sum of money chimes the hour of seven, and he sets the book aside, for Kat is planning to join him to sup before they attend the Midnight mass to welcome the birth of the Christ Child. Not that they shall attend together, of course - partly because she is his mistress, not his wife, but mostly because she dreads to be in public, and conceals herself as much as she can from prying eyes and cruel stares.

She is not late tonight, for it has been a week since he saw her last. The Countess, a woman of the world in every respect, has dismissed her for the evening, and does not begrudge her Kathryn's happiness - for what other happiness does she have?

Once inside, the door closed, she removes the veil and crosses the room to sit with him by the fire, "I have missed you, Richie," she says, "a week is far too long to be apart."

He takes her hand, "Forgive me, Kat," he sighs, "this last week has been burdensome with work, and I have had no opportunities to seek you out - for it is hard to sup with you when I have not the time to sup."

"Then you have time tonight?" she asks, archly.

"I have twelve days' worth - and I am willing to negotiate with her Grace for your time if that is necessary. I wish to keep you with me as much as she will permit."

His manservant sets out their supper, and leaves them in peace. Rather than claret, Rich has found some more riesling, and they share it over a roasted leg of hogget rubbed with rosemary and thyme as they ignore the momentous events of the autumn, and Kat instead entertains him with raucous gossip of the kind that he rarely hears in more masculine company. He is tired of listening to reports of land holdings, wealth and tithes, tired of bloody Pilgrims, tired of that naïve idiot Aske. To hear light nonsense that touches upon foolish liaisons and accidental _faux pas_ with love letters feels almost refreshing. If it were Kat waiting for him in Essex, then he would certainly have gone there - and equally certainly never come back. But she is not; and so he stays.

She departs before he does, to ensure that she can find a safe place to remain out of sight in the Chapel Royal. Rich, on the other hand, being a Privy Councillor, is expected to take a prominent position with those who are still at Court instead of departed to their estates. Viscount Beauchamp is there, of course, being the Queen's brother, and so is Brandon - his young wife Catherine at his side. Beauchamp's wife is also with him, though in their case their closeness seems equally an insurmountable divide. Then again, if Kat is to be believed, Lady Beauchamp is currently being tupped by Francis Bryan, so perhaps that is not a surprising as it appears.

Cranmer being in Canterbury, to oversee the services there, it is the tiresome old windbag Gardiner who leads the celebrations tonight. Being as thoroughly conservative as Cranmer is progressive, he has ensured that the service is as determinedly Catholic as he can make it without directly prostrating himself before the Pope. _Just as well Cromwell isn't here_ , Rich thinks to himself as he stands to the side while the Royal Family make their entrance.

Despite, yet again, failing to conceive, Jane is still at Henry's side, for her retiring nature keeps her safe from her continued lack of a child in her belly. They walk hand in hand, with all outward displays of familial affection. Behind them, Fitzroy seems to have been prevailed upon to be more considerate of his half-sister, and this time he escorts her - not that either of them seem to be overly appreciative of the requirement that they show solidarity to the Court. She is bright eyed with religious fervour, but her stiff stance all but shouts her wish to be apart from the youth at her side; and Fitzroy, too, seems to be remarkably febrile: he fidgets, his eyes are flicking left and right as he takes in the faces about him as though seeking out a route to escape. Despite the ceremonial, despite his cloth of gold, despite his lauded high place - it seems to Rich that the boy cannot abide to be where he is, and longs to flee. Surely he cannot be that desperate not to be near his half-sister?

But then, after nearly an hour of droning latin in a large stone space that even a multitude of candles cannot heat, Rich feels much the same. The chill of stone walls has kept the unseasonable warmth thoroughly at bay, and he regrets his decision to wear one of his thinner doublets.

As Gardiner finally speaks the Grace, allowing the assembled throng to depart - either to their beds or to continue carousing - Rich waits in one of the quieter corridors for Kat to seek him out. He might not be able to stand with her in the service, but he wants to escort her back to his chambers. She will, of course, wait until there are few people about, so he is obliged to stand in the dim light of the torches for nearly half an hour before she joins him, leaving him to be entertained by the sound of people's voices as they celebrate, argue or even, in some cases, are singing luck-visit songs. Somewhere off in the distance, he hears a sudden sharp scream, but then there is a woman's laughter. Someone must have ambushed their lover, then. He wonders if he dare try that with Kat, but decides against it.

Then, finally, she is there. Even with no one about, she will not remove her veil until they are safely behind closed doors, so they instead walk in companionable silence through the dim corridors to his chambers. Words shall come later. Much later.

* * *

She is looking at him as he opens his eyes, and Rich smiles to see her so close. Even though it has been less than seven days since last she shared his bed, he has learned to loathe waking alone, and misses her when she is not beside him.

"Greetings of the season, Kat." He murmurs, still a little drowsy.

"Greetings of the season to you, too - dear one." She whispers back, her lips seeking his almost at once. Again, always again, he wishes that he had found her soon enough to escape the marriage that he had been made to make, even though her ruined face would have ensured no hope of nuptials had he done so.

There shall be another mass later this morning, before the King leads his Court in the grandest of Christmas feasts at noontime, so they do not linger together in the warmth as long as either would have liked, instead breaking their fast with spiced bread and fresh cheese beside a cheerful fire, for the weather has turned chill again overnight.

Christmastide being a time for the giving of gifts, Kat has found him a volume of poems by Aristophanes, bound in intricately tooled and gilded red leather. Greek is, and has always been, the classical language that he has enjoyed the most - perhaps because it has an entirely different alphabet to absorb - and the works within the book are amongst his favourites.

"Thank you, Kat," he says, examining the pages, "I shall enjoy these."

"I expect you to read them to me later." She advises, for she loves to hear the sound of his voice.

Rising from his chair, Rich retrieves a small velvet pouch from a nearby sideboard, and hands it to Kat, "For you."

Intrigued, she opens the pouch and tips out a gold chain, from which hangs an exquisite black pearl, held in a setting of gold that resembles vines and leaves. She has never desired ostentation, for all it brings her is scorn - but he has taken great care to seek out a jewel that is understated and elegant, for no woman of gentle birth should ever be without jewels. She does not need to know how much it cost him.

"Oh, Richie…" she whispers, softly, and he knows that he has chosen well, "Thank you - it is beautiful."

"As are you."

She looks at him, "No one has ever described me so - for I am not."

"You are to me." He says, simply. She knows he speaks the truth - for she can read him as adeptly as Cromwell can, and her eyes fill with tears. At once, his face falls, thinking he has hurt her, and he is at her side, "Forgive me, Kat - I did not mean to cause you pain."

"No, Richie - you have not. Truly you have not." She reaches out to grasp at his hand, "They are words I have not heard since I was a child, and I had forgotten what it would mean to be thought beautiful."

He kneels before her, taking her other hand, "Until I found you," he tells her, "I cared for none but myself - I have always thought only for my own advancement, and my own safety. For those of us who circle the throne, the risk of losing all is ever present - and I have acted reprehensibly to bring about the King's will, and to seek gain from the fall of others. I was sinking into a vile slough of my own making, but you are the hand that has reached to pull me from it. This mere jewel is scant reward for your rescue; for I think my very soul was in peril."

"Then we are both broken, and so we mend each other." She says, softly. Then sits back, her expression more brisk, "Read to me, Richie, I found those poems purely for my own entertainment."

They are obliged to be separate again for the Mass, and he cannot even see her within the Chapel, so well hidden is she. His rank also precludes him from dining with her, for he is expected to attend the King as a Privy Councillor, and thus must be in the hall, while she hides from such open display. Thus Rich sits and fidgets as all about him carouse, waiting for the dancing to begin. Once all are weaving about to the strains of a galliard, he shall be able to escape from view to spend time with her again. None expect him to dance, for he cannot seem to keep a rhythm in his head, and Kat would be unable to find any other partner. Instead, he finds her seated on a bench above the hall in the gallery, and they sit together and talk quietly of nothing much while the music drifts up from below. She is veiled, and he is sitting on a separate bench, the arms of the furniture between them, so none pay them attention. He is, after all, the despised Richard Rich, and she is the veiled pock-faced woman. For the wags of the court, they seem the ideal pairing - she is ugly on the outside, while he is ugly on the inside. Other than that, no one spares them so much as a glance - and they do not notice as she gently examines the beautiful black pearl that she now wears on a chain about her neck.

The celebrations below are becoming more raucous now, as the King and his family have retired to their apartments. The dancing continues, but so does the drinking, and it is not long before a fracas breaks out.

"Damn you for a prudish whore!"

Rich frowns at the bizarre description - how can one be a whore, and be a prude? Bemused, he rises from the bench, and leans over the balustrade, curious as to who is involved in such an altercation. He is not surprised to discover that it is the ever-touchy Simon Paxton, though it seems as though the 'prudish whore' is one of the Queen's ladies, who looks both shocked and distressed as two of the other Minions hustle him away.

"What happened?" He asks someone standing nearby.

"I am not sure," the man - some courtier he has not seen before - replies, "they were dancing, I think, and he wished to kiss her, but she turned away."

And so Paxton lost his temper.

"What was it?" Kat asks as he returns to her.

"Sir Simon Paxton took umbrage at the chastity of one of the Queen's ladies. Apparently his desire to plant a kiss upon her in the midst of the dance entitled him to do so. She did not appreciate that - and he chastised her. Fortunately with words rather than his fists - for the Queen would have approached the King over it."

"I am amazed he is still at Court."

"As am I." Rich agrees, "His temper is fearsome." He shrugs, dismisses the contretemps from his mind and resumes their quiet conversation together.

Her refusal to eat in public requires Kat to retire to the Countess's rooms again as the Court sups, for Rich is obliged to remain for that as well. With the closing of the day, the Royal Family have returned to the Hall, thus obliging those present to moderate their behaviour once again, or leave to continue their carousing elsewhere. Given that most have now been eating for most of the day, few are still managing to do more than simply pick at the newest remove, though the King is reaching for handfuls of victuals as though he has been starved for a week. Beside him, Jane sits demurely and sups now and again from a gold cup of claret, while Mary sits to her left and glowers. To the King's right, Fitzroy spears a leg of turkey-cock with his knife, and sets to as though in competition with his father. Watching them, Rich discovers that he has lost his appetite.

As soon as decorum permits, he excuses himself from those about him - though it is of supreme indifference to them whether he is present or not - and returns to his quarters to spend the rest of the evening with Kat.

* * *

The change in the weather seems quite absolute, with clear skies and a bitter frost that has obliged Cromwell to find himself a much warmer cloak than that he wore when he left for Austin Friars. Despite its closeness to the Palace, he can never stay for as long as he would like - and, indeed, he is surprised that they are still at Whitehall. It can only be the growing cold that keeps them there - for the sheer degree of waste that is washed into the river would stink to high heaven were it still summer.

His own household has been warm and filled with life - a welcome change to the almost poisonous atmosphere in which he would normally reside - and he almost wishes that he could simply turn about and return there. Almost - but not quite; he has set himself something of a mission in life, and to abandon it seems almost a sacrilege. Thus he allows the gelding to clatter across the Fleet bridge, and down Fleet Street at a sharp pace. It is unlikely that anything has happened in his absence other than the accumulation of hangovers, but nonetheless, now that he is on his way back, his senses are sharpening once again.

A number of other Courtiers are returning, their horses being seen to by grooms as he rides into the enormous yard. Many have been absent, though many more have not - for who would want to be away from the King, and the attendant opportunities to shine as best they can in the absence of brighter jewels?

He smirks to himself as he dismounts, and hands the horse over to one of the few grooms not engaged with other beasts, before shouldering a satchel and wandering idly back through the corridors to his quarters. That no one has accosted him is, to his mind, the best indication that he has missed nothing, and he is relieved, for his hands and feet are cold, and he would welcome nothing more than a seat beside a fire, and a good tankard of mulled wine to chase away the chill.

As noon approaches, he decides to go in search of a meal, rather than prevail upon his manservant to visit the kitchens on his behalf. Making his way to the hall, he finds Rich, clearly with the same goal in mind. It is immediately obvious to Cromwell from his colleague's mood that he has spent as much of the last two days as he can in the company of Kat, for he is rather unnervingly cheerful, and seems quite content to talk as they fall in together, "Was all well with you over the holidays, Thomas?" he asks.

"It was, Richard. It most certainly was - all of my family are in good health, and Gregory has nearly finished his studies. If all goes well, I should be able to induct him into royal service before the coming year is out."

Rich nods. Being considerably younger than Cromwell, his children - all girls so far except for his recently born son Hugh - are generally not old enough yet to have begun a formal education, "Robert Aske is still thinking himself a god amongst men - or as much as a man of his modesty is likely to think it." He continues, "The King gave him a fine furred robe for Christmas, and he dined but two chairs away at the high table."

Cromwell sighs, "Much as I admire his Majesty's ability to dissemble," he admits, "I do not feel right in my conscience that we are allowing this to happen. A man such as Aske does not deserve to be treated so - for he is doing only that which he thinks to be right."

"And we are not?" Rich asks.

"I did say 'that which he _thinks_ to be right." Cromwell smiles sadly, "That he cannot see the need for reform is unfortunate - but it is hardly a criminal act."

"Unlike leading the commons in rebellion against their Lawful King." Rich adds, rather grimly, "That _is_ a criminal act."

"Perhaps - but it may be that his Majesty shall grant him mercy when all is done. It is not unheard of for him to do so."

The smells of the victuals that shall soon be brought to the hall wafts across the courtyard from the Kitchens, and they both pick up their pace, for each is hungry. They are not, however, granted access; for in their path is the Palace Constable, and from the colour of his complexion, and the look upon his face, neither Cromwell nor Rich are taken aback by his words.

"Forgive me, my Lords - but another body has been found."

* * *

The room is quite small again - another place that serves largely for the sole purpose of sleeping - which has served to contain the horror in a truly graphic context. Thanks to the colder weather, the reek is more of blood and digestive matter than putrefaction, but nonetheless the unfortunate guard keeping people at bay is still pale as a sheet, and - every now and again - he struggles not to retch.

"Constable - fetch Doctor Butts." Cromwell orders, suddenly detached again, "Mr Rich, if you could secure paper and writing materials?" he turns to the trembling guard, "A chair for Mr Rich would also be welcome, as he shall need to be able to rest papers upon something - even if only his knees."

The three men scatter in their separate quests, leaving Cromwell to stand guard over the ghastly chamber. He does not enter, but instead takes in the awful scene slowly and meticulously. Again, the woman - for it must be, wears a dress that has, as before, been split from décolletage to hem. Her face is gone - a mess of cuts and blood - while her torso has been gutted, the organs cut free and scattered about with the blood and gore. And there it is again - a small organ that has been carefully excised and set down beside her recumbent remains.

Rich returns first, with paper, ink, quill and a board upon which to set the papers. He resolutely stands away from the open door, and tries as best he can to breathe through his mouth. Cromwell is not surprised to see that he has gone very pale, and could not look more grateful that he has not eaten. Once the guard returns with the chair, he directs it to be placed - again - as far away as possible while still being in earshot.

Butts arrives after a few more minutes, with his measuring cord, and he stands in the doorway for a short time, taking in the scene, "Most unpleasant."

"Indeed so." Cromwell agrees, to the sound of a scratching nib as Rich commences his note-taking, "Your first impressions?"

"Much the same as previously," Butts says, with a sigh, "though I confess that I would have wished it that we were not facing such a scene again."

They are much more careful this time around, carefully measuring exactly where the woman lies, where blood trails have been laid, and measuring every footprint that they can see. Outside, Rich continues to scribble furiously, though the combination of gruesome detail, and the occasions when he forgets to breathe through his mouth cause him to gag now and then. As before, he wishes to be anywhere but where he is - but still continues to listen, and still writes down all that he hears.

"There would seem to be more than one person involved." Butts says, "For there are several footprints of different sizes - though it is not possible to determine precisely how many, for it may be that there are two people with feet of a similar size. There is naught that is unique about the prints; I cannot determine whether they have come from shoes or boots, nor is it possible to say whether the wearer is wealthy or poor."

"It does confirm our suspicions that the perpetrator is being aided, however." Cromwell adds, "For, again, there is no sign of unpleasantness upon the floor beyond this chamber."

"There is nothing." Rich confirms, a little weakly, from outside.

"I think it likely that the method of dispatch was the same as before," Butts continues, "for the blood has streaked across the walls again - a distance of some…" he pauses as he measures, "two and a half, to three, feet. Thus I would say that a vein was opened - probably in the neck." As he stops, they hear Rich gag again.

"Do you intend to conduct a more thorough examination of the remains once we have removed them?" Cromwell asks.

Butts nods, "Absolutely. I do not expect that I shall find much more than I have already, but nonetheless, I am keen to ensure that I miss nothing."

"Is there any sign of restraint?"

"Nothing immediately clear to my view, my Lord." Butts confirms, "Forgive me, but I must be certain." Again, he bends and carefully parts the bloodied legs, "There is no immediate sign of penetration, but I shall make a more thorough examination once she has been removed from here."

Sitting outside, Rich notes down everything in his speed-hand, placing his focus solely upon the words, rather than their import. Once more, he forgets to breathe through his mouth, and flinches at the smell, but then pauses and sniffs again. The cold has reduced the reek of the corpse considerably, and he can smell something else.

"You," he says to the guard, his voice considerably stronger now that he is concentrating on something other than his nausea, "Come over here."

Bemused, the youth complies. His face becomes even more nervous as Rich sniffs at him, before dismissing him and sniffing again. Then, apparently satisfied, he bends over his papers and scribbles again, "Vetiver." He mutters to himself, "And perhaps bergamot."

"Pardon?" Cromwell has appeared at the door and caught his comment.

"Vetiver." Rich looks up, "Can you not smell it?"

"I can smell only the corpse." Cromwell admits, "Why does it concern you?"

"Is it not a scent used primarily by men?" Rich asks, "And it is a lingering fragrance, though I know not how it has lingered so long. Are these chambers not generally the province of women? Perhaps the murderer used it to conceal the smell of the substances that would have covered him? For the fragrance to still be present, he must have used an extensive amount, though I believe it is as strong as it is lingering."

"I take it you have noted this observation?" Cromwell asks.

"I have."

"Good, we shall include it in our discussions. It cannot be said yet whether or not it is relevant, but it is better to note and discard later than ignore and discover it to have been the key to all." He pauses, "I smell it, too."

"Has Doctor Butts finished?" Rich asks.

"Not quite. I believe he is still measuring."

At length, Butts emerges, "Forgive my delay, Gentlemen." He says, holding a sheet of rough paper in his gloved hand, "I have made - as best I can - a sketch of the scene to indicate where all lies. I wish it were possible to record this more accurately, but unfortunately I lack a more precise measuring tool in order to establish proper scale."

Rich takes the paper, holding it at one corner with finger and thumb and his expression rather disgusted, "I shall take these to our investigation room."

"I shall see to the clearing of the chamber." Butts advises, "Once all is done, and the remains have been transported to an appropriately cool place, I shall join you."

* * *

Neither of the two men in the chamber are happy to be there again. While it has served as a useful hiding place during the upheavals of the autumn; that they have been forced to return it to its prior use again disturbs them both, for it indicates that the original death was not an isolated incident, planned or not.

While they wait for Doctor Butts to join them, Rich sits down and makes a start on transcribing the notes he has made. They are, as before, copious, for he has noted the discussion _verbatim_ in his speed-hand; which means that neither Cromwell nor Butts shall be able to read them. As he does so, Cromwell examines the papers that remain upon the walls. Some more have fallen from the plaster, so he retrieves them and pins them to the wall again, his expression dark. Of all the things to have to come back to, this was the one he expected least.

When he turns back, he notices that Rich has stopped writing, and is sitting over the papers, rubbing at his forehead with his hand as though he has a headache, "Why did this have to happen?" he asks, quietly, "All we had to concern ourselves was Aske, and the King has him in hand. All was well until this."

Cromwell has no answer.

Butts joins them after a half hour or so, "I have set the corpse in a cool cellar," he advises, "I shall commence the post mortem - such as is possible - this afternoon."

With no means of reading Rich's notes, he has no choice but to read them out, which he manages to do without the same degree of discomfort as previously. From the evidence they have, there is little alternative but to assume that the same killer has acted, for all is too similar to the previous killing. The likelihood that a vein was opened upon the neck to render the victim unconscious quickly and keep them quiet. The savagery of the disfigurement and the evisceration, and the almost surgical precision of the removal of the womb.

"That makes no sense to me." Cromwell admits, "Why remove that one organ? What is so important about it?"

"It is the means to bear children." Butts muses, "Perhaps the murderer is unable to do so, or is unable to sire them?"

"It would help if we knew who the victim was." Rich adds, grimly, "Her identity might answer some of the questions we still have - perhaps they have something in common."

"I have made enquiries as to the identity of the individual who lodged in the chamber," Butts answers, "from that, I understand she may be a Miss Louise Knotte."

"Ah." Rich murmurs.

"Ah?" Cromwell asks.

"She has something of a reputation, Thomas." Rich advises, "As I understand it, the number of amours she had was quite extensive - and it included Sir Simon Paxton."

"Do we still consider him to be a suspect?" Butts asks, "I was obliged to tend to the aftermath of several fights in which he was involved."

"He also acted most intemperately during the festivities in the hall yesterday afternoon." Rich adds, "One of the Queen's ladies attempted to avoid his unwanted attentions, and he took offence at her doing so." He sounds doubtful, however.

Cromwell shakes his head, "I am not willing to reach such a conclusion at this stage, Richard. His reputation still involves the use of his fists - and he has done yet more to bolster that - but it does not involve the use of blades. Unless he shows me otherwise, I can only keep his name as a possible perpetrator, not a probable one."

"Then we must investigate the 'other amours'. Butts says, dryly.

* * *

The young woman in the chair looks at the two Courtiers with frightened eyes. She is merely a chambermaid, and has no idea why the Lord Privy Seal would want to talk to her, much less in a room set a few doors away from the King's Waiting Chamber - which she would never normally even approach.

Despite his hawk-like expression, Cromwell's voice is the soul of gentility, and he sits down alongside her, "You have nothing to fear from us, Miss Seaton. We seek only to know more about Miss Knotte."

She nods, but says nothing.

"How well did you know Miss Knotte?" he asks.

"Quite well, my Lord." She whispers, almost too afraid to speak any louder, and causing Rich to have to strain to hear her as he makes notes, "Despite her better station in life, she always talked to me, and she was very kind."

"Forgive me if my questions make you feel uncomfortable, or disloyal - I ask only for information, and nothing that you say to me in this room shall be spoken of outside it, except in the place where we are basing our investigation. I give you my word. All I ask of you is that you tell me the truth - not what you think I want to hear; only the truth."

She nods, "Yes, my Lord."

"Did Miss Knotte have many male friends?"

"Yes, my Lord. She saw many men - and she talked of them to me quite often, and showed me the gifts they gave her. She even gave me one of them - a pouch of coins - for my Ma was sick and we couldn't afford a doctor."

" A kind and generous mistress, then?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Who were the people she was seeing most recently?" Cromwell poses the question as delicately as he can.

Miss Seaton blushes, "Forgive me, my Lord - I do not know who all of them were, but she was, for a time, with Sir Simon Paxton. I think she was also seeing one of the Queen's Stewards until recently, but he was dismissed for a minor theft a few months ago. Most recently she was seeing Lord John Somerton."

"One of the Earl of Oxford's retinue?"

She nods again.

"Are you aware of anyone else?"

"No, my Lord."

He bows his head to her, "Thank you, Miss Seaton. You may go - you have been most helpful."

She rises, bobs a neat curtsey and departs.

"Lords and Stewards?" Rich asks, "I am not sure whether that would mean she is discriminating or not in terms of rank."

"I can only assume that rank was of no interest to her." Cromwell muses.

"Quality of the rutting, I suppose."

" _Thank_ you, Mr Rich."

A note arrives from Butts as Rich is re-reading his notes, and he waits for Cromwell to finish reading it, "It seems that Miss Knotte - assuming the victim is she - likely died on Christmas night, though he cannot be certain of that thanks to the cooler weather. He has no further information to add other than he did indeed find evidence of a man's seed within her. She was therefore with a man prior to her death; but, again, it is not possible to determine whether he was merely an amour, or her killer."

"Shall we summon Lord Somerton?" Rich asks, "I think he is about the Court somewhere."

It turns out that he is indeed about the Court, but the Steward sent to fetch him returns alone, "He refused to come, my Lord."

Cromwell looks bemused, "His Majesty has ordered the Court to co-operate with our investigation - thus he is obliged to do so. It is not my order, but that of the King."

"I shall fetch him." Rich volunteers, "It shall be less embarrassing if he refuses to comply with my request than yours." He looks across at the Steward, "Where did you find him?"

"He was in the Waiting Chamber, my Lord."

Like Paxton, Somerton is something of a peacock, his clothing just short of violating the required dress code of the Court. His wealth comes more from commerce than from property, but nonetheless he wears his Barony like a mantle of pride, and views the Gentry-born Rich with not-entirely-undeserved contempt, "What do you want?"

"It is the King's demand that all at Court comply with the requirements of the investigation being undertaken in relation to the recent deaths. Thus, in refusing to speak to us, you are directly violating the order of the King." He keeps his voice low. There is, after all, only so much humiliation he can accept in public.

"Then send someone of the appropriate rank to talk to me." Somerton spits back, "I shall have nothing to do with a baseborn nobody who has been elevated above his natural station."

Rich decides to opt for a veiled threat, "I should add that your refusal to speak to us could, in some quarters, be viewed as an admission of culpability." Again, he does not raise his voice, and neither does Somerton as he leans in rather closer than Rich would like, "Believe what you like, _Sir Richard_ ," he hisses, "I am of higher rank even than you, Privy Councillor or no. That black raven Cromwell is of insufficient worth to speak to me, or to be spoken to _by_ me. Thus I shall not do as you demand." Without another word, he brushes past Rich, and leaves the Chamber. Rich rolls his eyes.

"I think he does not like you, Sir Richard." The woman's voice is mildly amused, and he turns to see Lady Anne Beauchamp, sitting on a small banquette nearby.

"No one likes me, my Lady." He says, with surprising cheerfulness, "I think it is my charmless nature."

She raises an eyebrow, surprised, perhaps, at his humour, "It may interest you to know," she adds, more confidentially, "that Louise Knotte was, until recently, his mistress - but he dropped her in favour of another woman recently come to Court. I am told that she prevailed upon him most piteously to accept her back again on Christmas Night - though he was with his new paramour even as she did so. I can only imagine that she must have been in drink to have been so brazen. He refused her with much spite, I believe - and spent the time that he should have been at the Mass engaged in a far baser activity with his new partner."

"Is that so?" Rich asks, more confidentially.

"So I am told." Lady Anne confirms, "Though, naturally, I could not be so crude as to reveal my source."

Cromwell is not pleased, "I do not wish to have to go to the King again." He sighs, "Lord Somerton's behaviour is thoroughly unhelpful. I cannot supplant a witness statement with gossip."

 _Even though that was exactly what we did with Anne Boleyn?_ Rich thinks to himself, but does not say so out loud, "I can make another attempt?"

Cromwell shakes his head, "No. I think not. I shall give him a few days to cool his temper and try again - though I think we should do what we can to substantiate that which Lady Beauchamp told you. While it would seem that neither man can vouch for their whereabouts, for neither - I believe from what little comment I have been able to overhear - were at the Midnight Mass, I cannot find a strong motive in either to do what was done to the women who have died. No, Richard; despite all, we are no further forward."

Gathering his papers, Rich does not comment. Instead, he opts to return his notes to the investigation room and transcribe them in the morning. As though he does not have enough work to do. As he walks, he makes a mental note of all that must be done on the morrow, both in terms of their investigation, and in terms of his more proper work. After a moment, he stops, and realises that he is outside the chamber where Louise Knotte died. Even though it has now been cleaned, he still opts to open the door and look inside.

There is nothing now. No bloodstains on the floor, though there are scrubbing marks upon the walls and the carpet that was covered in blood and fluids has been rolled up and removed.

Then he sniffs again, and finds he can still smell it.

There is still vetiver in the air.


	9. A Virgin Sacrifice

CHAPTER NINE

 _A Virgin Sacrifice_

The news has spread very quickly, leaving people rather subdued. Not at the identity of the victim, for her reputation was extraordinarily sullied even in a court where illicit sexual liaisons are hardly unknown, but for the fact that someone, somewhere, has acted with such hideous violence - and none know who it might be. Suspicions are rife, particularly amongst the lower level Courtiers, who are too numerous to know everyone about them by sight, and the Constable is most vexed, for he has been obliged to intervene in a number of arguments which have threatened to become fights.

"Matters are beginning to get out of hand, my Lord," he complains to Cromwell, who is reading some of Rich's transcribed notes in their investigation room, "though I suspect that the majority of incidents are being caused by those who have other scores to settle."

"In much the same manner as those who provided unsolicited written statements after the death of Anne Hamme." Cromwell muses, lifting another sheaf of similar papers relating to Louise Knotte, "I am not sure which was worse - the wall of silence, or this deluge of spite."

"Some of the King's Minions are spoiling for fights," the Constable continues, "I attempted to speak to Sir Francis Bryan, for he seems to be very much at the forefront of their activities; but he rebuffed me."

Cromwell sighs, "Then I shall try. I do not suspect him - not at this time - but he is known to me, and his understanding of this Court's underbelly is unrivalled. He may have seen or heard of incidents that are of use to our investigation."

"Do not be surprised if he strikes you, my Lord."

"And claim himself to be an equal of his Majesty?" Cromwell's eyebrow rises sardonically, "I doubt it."

* * *

The atmosphere in the small room they have largely claimed for their interviews is odd: neither laden nor brittle. Rich is seated at the table again, his quill charged with ink, while Sir Francis Bryan examines his fingernails with a slightly bored air that tinges close to ill temper. His expression is neutral, though from the angle at which Rich is viewing it, he cannot tell exactly, as Bryan's face is obscured partly by his impressive black beard, and partly by the eyepatch that hides his jousting injury.

"Did you know Louise Knotte?" Cromwell asks.

"Who did not?" Bryan smirks, "I am surprised that she did not find her way into _your_ bed, my Lord."

Rich nearly chokes. Cromwell, on the other hand, smiles benignly, "And you think I have the time for such trifles?" he tuts, and shakes his head, as though amused at the very idea, "How… _well_ …did you know her?"

"What - did I fuck her?" Bryan asks, his expression roguish, "God, no. She was ridden by so many she should have lived in the stables with the other mares. I have no wish to risk the pox: I do, after all, have standards to maintain."

"So I am given to understand." Cromwell says, dryly, before continuing, "Who else was she seeing, then?"

"It would be easier to give you a list of who she _wasn't_ seeing."

Cromwell rolls his eyes, "I take it she was well known to your general circle?"

"Extremely, my Lord." Bryan grins.

"What about Miss Anne Hamme?"

The grin vanishes, "What about her?"

"Could you advise me of your whereabouts in July?"

"Of course. I was away from Court. On _Court_ business. I am sure that you can verify that easily enough. You did, after all, dispatch me to undertake it."

Cromwell nods: he remembers, "And on Christmastide Eve and Day?"

"I was in the Lock-up." He shrugs, "I overindulged. Extensively."

"Where?"

"Cheapside. Where else?"

"I thought you were intent on _avoiding_ the pox?"

"Perhaps I should take you there, my Lord." Bryan drawls, "Then you might learn that there are taverns in the area, as much as whorehouses. Like I said. I have standards to maintain."

Cromwell regards Bryan, a little tiredly. Annoying though the rogue is, he is capable and largely careful in his dealings with people. Not a man given to uncontrolled violence, though he is hardly a peaceable creature, either. His demeanour is not defensive, or nervous. He clearly has nothing to hide, either that or he is far more brazen than Cromwell is giving him credit for; no, he is not the killer.

"Thank you, Sir Francis. I have no further questions."

Bryan rises, and bows floridly, "Such a pity. I was quite enjoying myself, my Lord - it has been a long time since I was last considered so bloodthirsty. Thank you for thinking of me. I shall see myself out."

Rich stares at him, bemused, as he departs, "Was he serious?"

"Completely." Cromwell says, "It was worth speaking to him to see if he might add some further insights - but he is rather too guarded for that. Even though I am well aware that all of the Minions despise Paxton, there is still some loyalty of a kind amongst them, it seems."

Rich shrugs, "Do you intend to speak to anyone else, Thomas? If not, I shall set to work transcribing this."

* * *

With the year's end fast approaching, the mood at Court quickly begins to change, with the grim events over Christmastide hastily forgotten in the new opportunity to celebrate, eat, drink and dance. Queen Jane has, again, been quietly persuasive, prompting her mercurial husband to invite his second daughter - hitherto not his at all - back to Court for the last stages of the Christmastide festivities. Her retinue arrived this morning, and already there are problems, for the child is to lodge not in quarters of her own, but in those set aside for Mary, thus obliging her to make room for not only a young girl, but also her ladies, too.

Despite herself, Mary is not willing to show her anger at the child; after all, it is hardly her fault, any more than it was Elizabeth's fault that the woman that Mary still calls 'the Concubine' demanded that she be little better than a servant to her younger sister. Instead, she reserves her bile for her half-brother, who is still riding high, and peacocking it at his father's side.

Henry has not returned to his statement before Christmas that the Court shall have a new prince by this time; but still he lauds his bastard son as though he is the Second Coming of the Christ, which both expands Fitzroy's already puffed-up esteem, and sets Mary to glowering. Elizabeth, despite her youth, is not blind to such undercurrents, and sits very quietly indeed beside her older sister. With all the Court about them, all dressed in their finest, the entire scene almost glistens as the jewels, silks and satins reflect the multitude of candles. Seated to Fitzroy's right, still feted as he was when he arrived, Aske stares in wonder at the magnificence all around him - perhaps he has forgotten to be scandalised at the sheer degree of wealth that is on display.

The King seems quite oblivious to the enmity between his two oldest children, welcoming all to the last great feast of the old year, and the celebrations that shall bring in the new. Despite herself, Mary smiles as she is cheered by all, and grips her younger sister's hand in warm solidarity, for she has clearly noticed Elizabeth is unnerved by her behaviour.

As he watches them, Cromwell again feels some sympathy for the put-upon child of the discarded Queen Katherine - who she never saw again once the marriage had been declared null and void. The price she has paid to secure her father's love is a cruel one, for she has all the fierce pride of her Spanish mother, as well as the solid Catholic Popishness that he has spent so long quietly undermining, and she has been required to all but repudiate both in order to be welcomed back into the Court where once she had been so warmly loved. And now Elizabeth is obliged to play the same game - despite being less than five years old. _God forbid that I could ever have treated my little girls so_ , he thinks to himself, sadly, and wonders if their loss so young might have saved them from something like this. He is not the man he was then. Not by half.

As all around them feast, chatter and dance, Cromwell knows that Rich is fidgeting, and wants more than anything to be elsewhere. Given her disfigurement, his mistress never appears in public if she can avoid it, so he cannot spend time with her. He regards his colleague for a moment, his keen eyes reading Rich almost like an open book, and again marvels at the fact that someone so utterly focused upon his own welfare could have found it in himself to love another - and not only that, but someone who does not enhance his standing at Court, for Kathryn most certainly does not.

Entirely unaware of Cromwell's scrutiny, Rich watches the dancers rather sourly, wishing both that he could remember steps of a dance as easily as he remembers other things, and that Kat could join the dance, too. Where else could they spend time openly in public? But he cannot dance, and she cannot bear to be watched, so instead he must sit to the side, watch and regret. No one will miss him if he leaves; surely…

The King laughs, loudly and delightedly as Fitzroy leans in close to him, presumably imparting some joke or other. Beside her husband, Jane smiles politely, though without the amusement Henry displays. Perhaps the comment was in poor taste - for the King quite enjoys such humour. Further to the left, Mary scowls, and Cromwell knows then Fitzroy has said something that is amusing only to one such as the King. Either that, or Henry is so enamoured of his son that he would laugh at even the most base of insults.

With one hour of the old year remaining, Rich is becoming so obviously keen to depart that Cromwell takes him to one side, "Do not leave too hastily." He says, quietly, "Then none should notice your departure."

Surprised at Cromwell's sympathetic assistance, Rich nods, "Thank you, my Lord." He bows and slips away.

She is waiting for him in one of the quieter courts, under a colonnade, for a light snow has begun to fall to welcome in the new year, "Are you not cold?" he asks, concerned that she has been waiting for longer than he would have liked.

"Not at all." Kat says, though he cannot see her expression behind her veil, "I am well wrapped, and this snow is delightfully pretty."

"I, however, am not." Rich says, as the crowded Hall was very warm, and he has no cloak to keep the chill at bay, "Would you like to return to my quarters, or shall I fetch a cloak?"

She turns to him, "I shall go with you, I think." The sound of laughter heralds a group of people invading their quiet space, and she is happy to leave the court to them, "How was it in the Hall?"

"Strained, dull and odd." Rich admits, as they walk together, "The King is determined to forget that two women are horribly murdered, and requires all to do the same for the night. Mary is feeling the barbs of her wounded pride, Elizabeth is uncertain of the ground upon which she stands, and Fitzroy's already over-large head is growing by the minute. In some ways, he is very much like his father."

Kat laughs, "In other ways, too. How long has he been married now?"

Rich stares at her, surprised, "He is but seventeen, Kat - thus he was barely more than a child when he wed. Why should it be no surprise that his wife is not yet with child?" He guides her into his chambers, and she removes her veil as he closes the door.

"More than that, Richie," she says, "As I hear it, the marriage is not even consummated. Hardly a case of 'like father, like son' if he has not yet tupped his wife."

"That sounds very crude." Rich smiles.

"It does, doesn't it? But then, we are hardly in the same position, are we?" Kat says, and kisses him as the clock strikes midnight, "Happy new year, my love."

"Happy new year." He whispers back.

* * *

The snow continues to fall for several days, on and off, coating the Palace in a pristine sheet of white that begs to be rumpled at the first opportunity. Even the most staid of Courtiers are hard put to avoid the childish excitement of the thick snow, while the younger members of the Court soak themselves in melted snowballs from pitched running battles that last for hours with such endless ammunition within easy reach.

For Cromwell, however, there are no such japes. Instead, he is sitting with the King in the Privy Chamber, reading through the list of names of those of note who have stood with Aske in open rebellion against his Majesty. He avoids sighing aloud as he does so; for none of the people here believe themselves to be acting against the good of the Kingdom. From their demands, they believe that he has lost his way, and all that they intend is to help him find it again. That their King refuses to be wrong in anything is a matter of which they are radiantly, innocently, unaware.

Asks himself has departed the Court, laden with good wishes and well victualled for his journey north. His expression is friendly, for he believes that he has reached his King's heart, and all shall be mended. The fact that the Lord Privy Seal is sitting in the Privy Chamber, and not in the Tower, has not, it seems, dented this belief. Perhaps he believes that Lord Cromwell has also seen whatever light it is that Aske expects him to see.

"Look at it, my Lord." Henry spits, furiously, "Just look at it! A list so long - each and every one of them a damned bloody traitor!"

"Yes, Majesty." If he were to be truly honest with himself, he knows that they are not - but if it is his life against theirs, he knows who he shall choose to survive.

"Aske had better get them under control, Cromwell. If not, I shall hang the bastard from the walls of York! Or I might anyway. I will not be treated so, damn them all to hell! Who do they think they are, dictating to me in such manner?"

Cromwell thinks of the twenty-four articles, and feels relieved that Henry is so keen to dismiss them - particularly article eight.

"How are we to proceed, Majesty?" He asks, for it is clear that Henry is not interested in anyone dictating to him at the moment - not even his Lord Privy Seal.

"Ensure that this is in the hands of Norfolk as soon as you may. Make sure that your messenger is trustworthy."

 _The only person I would trust with this is myself._ Cromwell thinks, but nods, "Yes Majesty."

"Then I shall see how Norfolk treats it, for I am not convinced that he is as much an enemy of these traitors as he claims."

Again, Cromwell does not comment. Not if it can ensure that Norfolk's stock is lowered in the King's eyes; the so-called 'Pilgrims' are nothing like as great a threat to him as Thomas Howard.

"Bloody Aske had better make sure his filthy burghers go home, or God help the lot of them." Henry growls, "I shall make them all weep blood, in gallons if need be. I shall wade in it if I must to ensure that they remember their damned place!"

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell says, again keeping the sigh out of his voice. With a wave of his hand, the King dismisses him, and he returns to the offices, both relieved, and guilt-ridden. Yes - Liz would despise him nowadays.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he does not notice at first that Rich is standing beside his desk, looking grim, or that the Constable is nearby, grey-complexioned again.

"What?" he asks, startled out of his reverie.

"Forgive me, my Lord." The Constable says, but Rich continues, "There's another one."

* * *

"Jesu have mercy." Cromwell sighs, looking at the appalling scene in the chamber, "How can another have died so soon? It must have been five months between the first two. What in God's name is happening?"

"This year seems to have begun under a most dark star, my Lord." Doctor Butts agrees as he dons his leather gauntlets again, "I cannot fathom who would do this, or why."

The room is rather better in aspect than those of the previous two victims, in that it has a main chamber and a bed chamber. The body itself lies within the bedchamber, disrobed, disfigured and eviscerated like the others - and again with one small organ carefully excised and set aside the corpse.

"The room is bigger," Butts observes, "which has prevented the blood from spattering across the walls - but…" he pauses to take measurements, "It has still travelled a considerable distance, which suggests that the victim was alive when a vein was opened - possibly in the neck, for there is an incision here: much like the one that I found upon the corpse of Anne Hamme - though the throat was too damaged for me to find one on Louise Knotte." He points, and Cromwell leans down to look.

"Based upon the footprints, I should say that there was more than one person present, though it may be that only one was in the room to perform the killing. I cannot say for certain." He turns, "Sir Richard, has any matter been trodden out of the bedchamber?"

There is a moment of silence, "None." Rich reports back, "Though I can smell Vetiver again."

Cromwell looks up, surprised, for he has missed it. Stepping away from the malodorous corpse, he stands in the doorway and sniffs carefully. Rich is right - there is a fragrance, though he does not use Vetiver, and thus does not recognise it for the scent that Rich claims it to be.

"I am not an observer of fashion, Gentlemen," Butts says, "But, from the clothing, I should say that this woman does not appear to fit the same description as the others. Her garments seem much finer, and in far better repair."

"I should say the same from the rooms in which she lies." Cromwell adds, "These rooms are for Courtiers of better means than Miss Hamme or Miss Knotte." He frowns, bemused, "I shall enquire as to whom these chambers were assigned."

Butts continues his examination and measuring. As with Louise Knotte, he sets out some paper and, with charcoal, carefully attempts to sketch out the room as he sees it, using his measuring rope to aid him. As he busies himself, Cromwell joins Rich, who is still listening for comments to note down.

"I think you are becoming used to these scenes." He observes, "I have not heard you retch once."

"I should prefer that they stop, Thomas." Rich grunts, "I would rather not be 'becoming used' to them."

Leaving Butts to organise the removal of the body, and the cleaning of the rooms, the pair make their way back to the investigation room, where Rich immediately sits down to begin transcribing. After an hour's diligent work, he has more papers to place upon the wall with the others, while Cromwell has sought, and found, the identity of the tenant of the rooms.

"If the woman is the one to whom the rooms were assigned, then her name was Sarah Culver." He reports, "I know little of her. Perhaps Miss Silverton could help us with this?"

"I shall ask her." Rich promises.

"Sarah?" Kat says, shocked, "But that seems impossible! She was nothing like either Anne or Louise - she had no amours, and refused all who tried."

"Did you know her?" Rich asks.

"Not well, for she preferred to avoid me." Kat admits, as she sits down beside him, "She was very guarded of her virtue - quite prudish in fact. I think she disliked me not because of my face, but because of my activities - for she intended to keep herself solely for a husband. But then," She says, more bitterly, "she had sufficient funds to do so."

"Was she at Court for any particular reason?"

"She originally came here to join the Queen's Ladies - but that fell away after Queen Anne was removed. I think there were plans for her to enter Queen Jane's service, for one of her present ladies is due to marry and shall depart to her husband's estate when she does so. I don't think that she would have enjoyed being one of Queen Jane's ladies - it would have meant she would no longer have been free to indulge her passion for pious retreats."

"Retreats? Did she visit religious houses?"

Kat shakes her head, "No, Richie - she merely closeted herself in her rooms and undertook what she always referred to as 'personal devotions'." Her expression becomes sceptical, "We thought she just kept salacious poetry in her rooms and touched herself."

"Kat!" Rich looks shocked.

"Perhaps she didn't." Kat shrugs, then turns to him, "It was very hard for us to like her, Richie. She kept herself very aloof, and seemed quite convinced that she was morally superior to all of us - for she had no understanding of how it is to live at Court without money."

"When did you last see her?"

"Some days ago." Kat says, "I assumed that she had gone into one of her seclusions again; we all did, for she was inclined to do so with little warning, and for several days at a time."

Rich sighs. That, and the cold, means that it shall be nigh on impossible to determine the day upon which she died.

"I must sound terrible." Kat murmurs, a little guiltily, "She is dead, and I accuse her of immoral behaviour."

Rich takes her hand, "I should rather you told me the truth as you see it, rather than that which you think I wish to hear. It may be that she did read salacious poetry. We have not searched her rooms, so I cannot verify one way or the other."

"What a pity." She smiles, "If there had been, I should have been quite delighted for you to read them to me."

Rich reddens with embarrassment, and she laughs.

* * *

Cromwell is bemused, "Miss Culver was virtuous?"

"Completely and utterly." Rich confirms, "Or, at least, as far as could be determined in a place where no secret stays so for long. Apparently the rest of the Court women were most amused by it."

"Then one of our motives has been taken from us." He complains, "The two previous victims were, to some degree or other, promiscuous - but she was not."

"She is, however, still a woman." Rich quips, earning a glare.

Butts has provided his notes of the post mortem, which - as with the others - does little more than confirm his initial assessment. That, too, is now tacked to a wall that is becoming liberally papered.

"What of our suspects?" Rich asks, setting yet more papers down on the table.

Cromwell scowls, "Worse still. Neither has been at court since the turn of the year."

"Are you sure?" Rich looks dismayed.

"I am." Cromwell sighs, "From my enquiries, both men departed before the last time that Miss Culver was seen alive. Paxton was banished from court on only the second day of the year."

"Ah, yes - there was a brawl on new year's day, was there not?" Rich agrees, "I was occupied elsewhere when that happened."

Cromwell rolls his eyes, while he does not know what Rich was doing, he can guess, "A man was stabbed, Richard - and while Paxton did not hold the blade, he did spark the fracas, while in the presence of some of the higher Privy Councillors. It was inevitable that it would happen sooner or later. The only surprising thing is that it took as long as it did for him to cross that line."

"And what of Somerton?"

"Much less energetic. He was merely away from Court to oversee some business transactions on his property. He has not yet returned." Cromwell says.

"So we have no suspects again."

"None. We must recommence our questioning."

"My joy knows no bounds."

Questioning the Minions proves to be a pointless affair, as none of them are willing to cooperate to any degree of use. Despite being amongst the most prolific of the Court rakes, not one of them seems to remember anything of value, and each of their colleagues has developed an almost monastic devotion to chastity. A new year's resolution, no doubt.

"I suspect you may need to ask Miss Silverton again." Cromwell grumbles, crossly.

"Or perhaps we could try one of Miss Culver's friends?" Rich suggests, "I assume she had some - even if she was as tiresome as Ka…Miss Silverton suggests."

After an hour, and some discreet enquiries, Cromwell has found someone who may be able to help them, though she looks at him with a strange combination of apprehension and snobbish loathing. Lady Mary Scrope is as aware of the Lord Privy Seal's base-born status as anyone of noble blood.

"Forgive our inconveniencing you, my Lady." He begins, the soul of courtesy and gentility, "I would not wish to have done this if there were any other course."

She glares at him, but says nothing.

"I believe you were a friend of the late Miss Culver?" He tries, hoping that this might elicit a response.

"I was." She says, almost grudgingly.

"I understand that she was of a most virtuous bent, and thus avoided the kinds of entanglements that seem somewhat rife here at Court."

"She most certainly was." Lady Mary is indignant, "She knew the touch of no man, for her maidenhead belonged solely to her husband - to be given to him on their wedding night - not that that stopped some of them. Vile creatures that they are!"

"She was accosted by men?"

"On occasions, yes. Most recently by that ghastly man Neville."

"Sir Edward Neville?" Cromwell prompts.

"That very man; yes. He seemed quite determined to take her virtue for himself - and she was obliged on more than one occasion to seek assistance from men of higher rank to put him off."

Cromwell frowns, "That is indeed disgraceful. I am appalled at such behaviour; though I am given to understand that his reputation is a most unpleasant one."

"Indeed it is, my Lord! Most dreadful!" Suddenly, in granting her the opportunity to speak ill of another, he seems to have opened a set of floodgates, "His reputation is as soiled as the worst sinner in Christendom! For he seeks out women - and they flock to him, for he gives them the most lavish gifts in payment for their sins!"

She seems set to continue for at least another hour, so Cromwell stops her as politely as he can - largely to ensure that Rich does not run out of paper or ink, "Thank you, my Lady. I can assure you that we shall treat your statement in the strictest confidence - and we shall assuredly question Sir Edward."

Lady Mary is still speaking even as he ushers her out, and when he closes the door, he leans upon it, in case she decides to come back in, "God above - I thought she would be hard to question. Instead she was hard to stop."

"We do, at least, have another name to try." Rich observes, going back over his notes, "She is right about him, though. I am aware of his reputation, for he seems quite proud of it; in his mind, all women are fair game for him - he considers all women to be little better than whores put upon this earth for his personal entertainment."

"I loathe him already."

After ten minutes in the company of Sir Edward Neville, Cromwell's loathing has turned to outright disgust; not so much at the man's reputation, but at his sheer cowardice in the face of the glaring Lord Privy Seal.

"I didn't kill the woman, my Lord." He blusters, rather fearfully, despite being far more burly than Cromwell and likely equally capable of knocking him down if he chose to do so, "She wouldn't let me near her - so…"

"So perhaps you sought revenge?" Cromwell asks.

"No, my Lord - absolutely not! I abandoned the chase, for she took to surrounding herself with ladies of high birth - I knew my bolt was shot, so I set my sights elsewhere - I swear it!" _Christ above_ , Rich stares at him, astonished, _he's sweating._

Cromwell leans in, fearfully close, "And can you advise me of your whereabouts in late July of last year?" his voice is low: deadly.

Neville looks panic-stricken, "No, my Lord - I cannot recall! It is near on six months past! How can I be expected to remember my movements so far in the past?"

"And what of Christmastide?"

"I was away from Court! I swear it! You can ask anyone - I returned to my estate!"

If he is disappointed at this news, Cromwell does not show it, "And what of the last week?"

"How can I account for all my movements over so many days, my Lord?" The man is trembling, "But I know someone else who was trying to secure her as a mistress! It was not merely I - for Sir Nicholas Carew was also intent upon her, we thought her to be a challenge - and he knew the other one, Louise - she gave him a pox of some sort, I think, so he has reason to hate her!"

His eyes narrowed almost to slits, Cromwell indicates that the man leave with a sharp nod towards the door, a look that he maintains even as the cowardly minion flees.

"God's wounds," Rich comments, "and I thought that _I_ was a vile creature. I think he could give me lessons."

Cromwell turns and smirks, then looks outside the door for a Steward, "Could you fetch in Sir Nicholas Carew, please."

* * *

Carew, when he joins them, turns out to be a remarkably ugly, rat-faced individual with bad teeth and no sense of decorum in terms of dress. His eyes narrow, darting between the two men before him, and he sits reluctantly.

"Sir Nicholas." Cromwell acknowledges.

"Who dropped my name in here, Cromwell?" Carew spits back at once, "Who was it?"

"I am not at liberty to say." Cromwell responds, icily, "Suffice to say that it is I who shall be asking the questions in this room."

"I shall answer none if you do not tell me who gave you my name."

"Then I shall wait until you do. We can see who needs the jakes first."

Carew glares. He was not expecting such a response.

"I understand that you have been attempting to secure the late Sarah Culver as your mistress. Is that the case?"

"Yes. She wouldn't have that jackanapes Neville, so I thought I'd bait a hook and see if she bit it."

"And she did not." It is not a question.

"God knows why."

Cromwell can think of plenty of reasons why, but chooses not to comment, "And what of Anne Hamme?"

"Nothing. Never had anything to do with her."

"Louise Knotte?"

"Little bitch gave me a pox."

"And you felt it appropriate, perhaps, to chastise her in some way?"

"God-damn you, Cromwell. I didn't kill the stupid little whore - someone else got there first. Besides, I was away from Court. Try and hold me responsible for that if you can. I can prove I wasn't here."

"And can you prove your whereabouts between the last time that Miss Culver was seen and the discovery of her corpse?"

" _You_ try and remember everything you did for however long that was. I don't know when she was last seen, so how am I supposed to account for my every move for however long you want? Do you want me to detail every shit I had? Every fuck?"

"Be careful what you offer me, Sir Nicholas." Cromwell advises, casually, "I might take up that offer." He flicks his eyes towards the door, dismissing Carew as rudely as the Minion greeted him. Without another word, Carew departs.

"What did you think of him?" Cromwell asks Rich, who is finishing the last of his notes.

"I thought he was worse than Neville - though I must reserve judgement on whether he killed anyone."

Cromwell shakes his head, "He was not at court when Louise Knotte died. I can take steps to confirm it, but I doubt that I would be told otherwise."

"Perhaps he took advantage of the murder in his absence?" Rich offers, "Killed Miss Culver in the same way?" He pauses, "No - perhaps not. He would have needed help - I doubt he has the wit to ensure that there was nothing on his shoes when he left. All was too similar to the previous killings."

"And so we are no further forward." Cromwell sighs.

"I think we are further forward in one respect." Rich advises, "I have run out of paper."

By the end of the day, Rich has transcribed all of his notes in his impeccable hand, and yet more papers decorate the walls of the Chamber. He looks up as Cromwell returns, "Remarkably, Sir Nicholas Carew has managed to get himself banished from Court."

"I imagine that took very little skill on his part." Rich says, setting his quill into a pot, "He seems able to offend people with so little effort. Who did he offend this time?"

"The King."

Rich stares, "And he still has his liberty?"

"It came to his Majesty's attention that Mr Carew had been making rather off-colour jokes at her Majesty's expense. While he has no proof of it, implication is sufficient, and he demanded Carew's immediate departure - never to return. I suspect that no amount of time shall reverse that."

"Perhaps we should hope, then, that he is the murderer. If he is, then there shall be no more deaths."

Cromwell nods, "And we shall finally have a suspect."


	10. The Consequences of a Broken Promise

**A/N:** Thank you again for your review, Anne; I'm glad you're looking forward to updates. With that in mind, here's another one!

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

 _The Consequences of a Broken Promise_

Cromwell sighs to himself as he locks the door of their investigation room. With matters as they are, he can only hope that Carew is their man, and that no others shall die. He has nothing else.

 _Three women…all disfigured, all eviscerated…but why Sarah Culver? Two are of low repute, but she is lauded amongst the higher-born as virtuous, even if those of lesser import considered her with scorn. What trait does she share with them other than the mere fact that she is a woman?_

He is still turning the problem over in his mind as he returns to the office chambers. Wriothesley is hunched over papers, writing busily, while Clerks move to and fro. Over at his desk, Rich is also engaged, reading over accounts and ledgers while he makes notes in that odd speed-writing that Cromwell has found so invaluable. Despite the demands of the twenty-four articles, nothing has changed. The work to redistribute the lands and monies held by the great Monastic Houses continues apace, while taxes are still collected, and the Statute of Uses is still in force. Nothing gives a clearer signal to Cromwell that his King has no intention of being dictated to by his subjects, and he knows that he is safe.

"How do things progress, Mr Rich?" he asks, formal again, as they are in public.

"Apace, my Lord. Apace." Rich advises, not looking up, "The monies passing into his Majesty's exchequer are looking to reach into millions of pounds."

Cromwell is taken aback by this, " _Millions?_ "

Rich nods, still scribbling. He has a great deal of work to make up, thanks to his transcribing of witness statements. Then he stops, and finally looks up, "How long, do you think, until Aske discovers we have played him false?"

Cromwell sighs, "My spies tell me that he is, even now, lauding his Majesty's goodness, grace and mercy to all and sundry. All those about him are overjoyed - for they believe a Parliament shall be summoned in York to debate the articles. He seems not to have noticed that the Commissioners are still about their work."

"Do you think it shall stay that way?"

"God, no. I should be astounded if it did. Sooner or later, the rebels shall see that things are not as they have been told - at which point the so-called pilgrimage shall founder into disarray. I assume that Norfolk shall then deem it meet to take steps. He must if he is to avoid the King's ongoing suspicions over his loyalties."

"Which you have done nothing to allay." Rich adds, sardonically. He is not unaware of the ongoing rivalry between the Brewer's son and the Duke.

"And how much of the… _largesse_ …has routed itself into your coffers, Mr Rich?" Cromwell asks, softly, though with a slight smirk, for they are neither of them stupid enough to let such an opportunity by. The King does not question such behaviour from his Courtiers; after all, as long as the bulk of the funds go to him, why should those doing the work not claim a little for themselves?

"Sufficient to pay for a rather unique gift." Rich says, loftily, though he does not elaborate. The cost of the black pearl that he gave to Kat was astonishingly high - but given her importance to him, he does not begrudge the expenditure; besides, he has been able to recoup it without difficulty.

"Truly we are a pair of venal rogues." Cromwell murmurs, not entirely seriously, "Perhaps the King should indeed punish us for our crimes."

Within days, the pair find themselves right in their estimation, as a Courier brings news of another rising, "It appears that Mr Aske has not been able to quell dissent." Cromwell says, reading the letter to the King, "There has been another rising - this time in Cumberland under the leadership of Sir Francis Bigod of the village of Settrington in the North Riding of Yorkshire. It seems that he is not prepared to wait for the pardon that you have so graciously granted…"

Henry snorts with amusement, then indicates that Cromwell continue, "nor for the summoning of the Parliament to discuss the twenty four Articles…"

"He would be waiting until the crack of doom for that." The King interrupts again.

"Thus, despite the urgings of Aske to desist," Cromwell finds he cannot help but do his best to absolve the poor, foolishly faithful Aske, "He has summoned more men to his banner. The leaders of the so-called Pilgrimage are largely against him, though some - Lord Darcy, and Lord Hussey, have flocked with their men to his banner."

"And what of Norfolk?" Henry demands, "Where is _he_ in all of this?"

Cromwell knows better than to lie, "His men are assembled and ready to face the rebels in the field if need be - for now that all is falling to disarray, he is finally in a position to meet them on more equal terms."

"I shall send my boy north to Collyweston. He shall gather men to my banner and join Norfolk to destroy these rebels!" Henry declares, suddenly, "He is young - and has not seen combat. That I shall amend, for what is a King who has not fought in battle?"

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell sighs, inwardly. As though the youth were not lauded enough.

* * *

The royal apartments are an uproar of packing, arguing and general milling about as the royal children are being prepared to depart from Court. Elizabeth is being sent away for her own safety - as the Rebels shall assuredly come to London if they come south - while Mary is, for appearances sake, being sent to one of her manors in Norfolk for the same reasons. All know, however, that her departure is more to remove a potential figurehead for the rebels, for one as thoroughly Catholic as she could not be guaranteed to refuse them - not when they demand that she be restored to the Blood, and the succession.

"Does he really think she would act against him?" Rich asks, not entirely expecting an answer.

"With the King these days," Cromwell admits, "It is impossible to tell. He sees threats where there are none, so where they exist, they become monstrous demons of the deadliest order. That Mary has so utterly submitted to him seems not to matter. She is the daughter of his first Queen, she is loved in the North _and_ they are demanding her restoration to legitimacy. I have no doubt that they would welcome her as Queen, even if her Majesty were to bear a son. Fitzroy would be of no interest to them compared to a full-blood, Catholic ruler."

While the departure of the daughters is hugger-mugger, the departure of the son is marked with trumpets and cheering, for the King's boy is to ride north to his Lincolnshire estates to raise a force of men to add to those already commanded by Norfolk. He rides a fine new charger, a gift from his father, and the King's banner flies from a pennant at his side, "I shall end all rebellion against you, Majesty!" he cries, raising his gauntleted hand in a rather wayward salute, "None shall stand against me!"

Standing amongst the Privy Councillors, also assembled to wave Fitzroy off, Cromwell takes care to ensure that his cynicism does not show upon his face. Every move the youth makes shouts of inexperience, bombast and overweening pride, for he has been brought to the belief that he is all but invincible.

"See my boy!" the King shouts, "None can destroy this fine youth - mark him well! For not even the witch Anne could stand against him!" he calls across to Fitzroy, above the clattering of hooves, "Remember that! She failed to poison you - you lived; thus God has granted you His favour!"

 _God help us_. Cromwell shudders, inwardly, _as though the boy does not already believe himself to be a Divine gift upon the earth_.

The retinue departs with a thunderous clamour of iron-shod hooves, leaving all to watch them go amidst the still melting slush of the receding winter in the first days of March. Cromwell stays where he is, listening as the last echoes fade.

"Won't you come in, my Lord?" Rich asks, visibly shivering, "It's bloody cold out here."

"Do you think he shall raise the promised army?" Cromwell asks, quietly.

"Do you?"

"No."

Rich snorts with amusement, "I suspect that, should it come to it, he could not organise a carouse in a tavern. He seems to be all bluster, and no strength."

"And his Majesty sees him as the next King."

"If that is so, then I shall retire. Or run."

Before he can return to his desk, Cromwell is instead redirected by a Steward to the Privy Chamber, where the King is sitting at the council table alone.

"He is gone again, my Lord." He sighs.

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell does not need to ask who, "But he has promised to grant you an army and ride to the aid of Norfolk for the restoration of security to the Kingdom."

"That he has." Henry smiles, suddenly, "God, I am proud to have that boy, for I begin to wonder if God shall grant me any other. Perhaps it is a sign of His favour that I have him and no other."

 _God grant us a Prince, then_. Cromwell thinks, but says nothing.

"I have seen the latest figures from Mr Rich." The King continues, more briskly, "Even now, I am shocked at the degree of wealth they kept squirrelled away - they who preached poverty!"

"Yes, Majesty. The figures are indeed remarkable - though we have not yet closed more than a quarter to a third of the greater houses." He knows how to pique his King's interest.

"God above! How much more can they possibly have kept from my exchequer, damn them?"

"At this point, Majesty, it is impossible to say - but likely to continue to rank in millions of pounds, in terms of land holdings, goods, chattels and actual monies."

"Christ's wounds!" the King is furious, "Close them, Cromwell - close them all, for they are a sore upon the skin of the Kingdom! How dare they!"

"We shall endeavour to do so with all speed, Majesty." Cromwell assures Henry, "For the safety of the commissioners, however, I think it wise that his Grace the Duke of Norfolk act with equal speed to…end…these insurrections in the North." _Give him enough rope to hang himself_. He thinks, allowing himself a small moment of spite.

"Sit. Write." Henry points at the chair to his right, before rising himself. Hastily, Cromwell seats himself, fetches out a sheet of paper and charges a nearby quill - that is not quite sharp enough - with ink.

 _Norfolk_ ,

 _It is my demand that you act to destroy these rebels by whatever means required. I expect you to end it wholly and utterly, and without mercy to any man, woman or child. If you do not, I shall be obliged to assume that you are in sympathy with this unnatural insurrection against my lawful reign. Thus I demand that you bring the bloodiest of slaughters upon them, for none shall rise against us again._

 _I send additional troops under the command of my son. You shall, therefore, submit to his command upon his arrival._

 _HR_

Norfolk reads the letter, and glowers.

"What is it?" Shrewsbury asks, looking up from his ale tankard.

"His Majesty is sending that idiot boy of his north with troops. It seems that I am to submit to his command when he gets here." Norfolk grates, his teeth gritted.

"Fitzroy? God help us, he expects us to be commanded by an untried youth?"

"Not if we act first." Norfolk spits, "Summon the commanders - we shall march at first light on the morrow."

* * *

"Majesty, I have a letter from Norfolk." Cromwell advises, as the Council sit, the warm April sunlight drifting in through the windows and across the table. All eyes are upon him.

"Well?" Henry demands, "What has he done?"

"It is good news, Majesty. He has fielded his troops, and thus the rebels have finally fallen into absolute disarray, between those who do not wish to fight, and those who do. The remaining rebels were of insufficient strength to meet Norfolk's men in open combat, and thus have fled. Thanks to this rebellion, those who undertook the so-called pilgrimage find themselves compromised, for they promised to disband - and yet many of them joined with Bigod."

There is a murmuring around the table.

"And did my Son participate?"

Rather reluctantly, Suffolk interjects, "Majesty - it appears that your son did not leave Collyweston, nor did he summon troops. There is no suggestion that he did anything but remain at home."

There is a pause, as Henry's face begins to redden. All find themselves nervously awaiting the likely explosion. Surely he cannot countenance this? Fitzroy has deliberately ignored his father's demand - has gone back upon his promise…

"Damn them! Damn those cowards who would prevent my boy gaining his spurs! I'll warrant they kept him closeted at Collyweston to prevent him from leading men in my name!"

Even Cromwell fights to keep his astonishment from his face; Henry is blaming Fitzroy's _retinue_ for this? Can he truly be so blind to his son's shortcomings that he would blame everyone _except_ Fitzroy when he has acted so cravenly?

"His Grace is now seeking out those who banded with Aske," Cromwell continues, a little nervously, "who have, largely, gone to ground. He asks that you issue a direct order that they come to London to answer your questions, for he believes that Aske is still, even now after those about him have acted against you in vile rebellion, certain that you shall grant him a hearing."

"Draft something for my signature." Henry glowers, still enraged in his belief that his son has been ill-served.

"Yes Majesty." Cromwell makes a note to write the draft, and then moves on to other matters.

"Do you think this is the end of it now?" Rich asks him as they return to the offices.

"I hope to God that it is." Cromwell sighs, "There shall be a grand outpouring of blood - of that I am certain - and afterwards who shall doubt his Majesty's strength?"

"As long as it is not my blood." Rich says again, "And what of Fitzroy? Does his Majesty really believe that his son would have stood to be kept away from battle? He is not a child."

"He refuses to believe ill of the youth - even though we can see him as a puffed up creature full of little more than piss and wind. He seems to have no strength or will to act; instead he blusters and promises - secure in the knowledge that, whatever he does, the King shall always blame others in his stead. I think, once, that I pitied him - but no longer."

"Then does that not make him truly invincible?" Rich asks, quietly, "Is there anything he could do that would earn the King's dismay?"

Cromwell shrugs, "That, I fear, remains to be seen."

They return to their desks, and their work.

That evening, Rich is relieved to finally be able to sup with Kat, for he has been obliged to work long hours to clear the endless reports and papers that are coming in from the Commissioners. Rather than leave her without any communication, he has written to her several times - but that is no substitute for her company.

"Have you made any progress in your investigation?" she asks, as they sit by the fire, having eaten well.

"None." Rich sighs, "We have no suspect, except Nicholas Carew. In the time that he has been gone from Court, there have been no more killings, so we hope that - should that state continue - he was responsible, and we can breathe easily, for his apprehension shall be in the hands of the local justices."

"And what of the rebellion?"

"That is all but over, Kat." Rich says, "Norfolk has moved against the rebels - and they are no longer in any state to meet him in the field. Thus they have scattered, and now he awaits a direct order from his Majesty that the leaders present themselves in London. They are to come to Norfolk, and he shall bring them south."

"Did Fitzroy do as he promised?" she was not present when the youth departed, but all know what he said before he left.

Rich shakes his head, "No. He did not. Naturally, his Majesty has blamed those around him, not the boy himself."

"He is not a boy any more, Richie." Kat says, quietly, "Nor is he a man - but still he is not a child. But then, I do not think he was ever a child. Not really - what childhood did he have? He was part of the tribunal who oversaw the downfall of Cardinal Wolsey when he was but eleven years old. He was elevated to the peerage when he was but six. How is that a childhood?"

"Perhaps that is always the way for a child of a King."

"Then I pity him, for it has all but ruined him. Have I not already said that I do not think he shall make a good prince? In the light of this, I believe it to be so even more than I did before."

"Unless her Majesty bears us a son, Kat," Rich sighs, "We shall not be granted a choice in the matter. The bill to legitimise him is ready - and must only be debated by Parliament to make all sure. Thomas has told me that, should there be no true-born son, the King's Grace shall willingly invest Fitzroy as Prince of Wales."

"Then I shall pray nightly to God that she bears us a son; no, _six_ sons."

"At least all things are quiet other than the work I have been formally tasked to do." Rich says, quietly, "I have not sufficient hours in the day to do it all, and to give you the time I wish to." He reaches to her, and she sits on his lap again, his arms tight about her.

As he caresses her hair, Kat looks a little guilty, "I should not have spoken ill of Sarah. It does not do to speak so of those who have passed."

"As I said then," Rich assures her, "I should always prefer it that you speak the truth to me - not tell me that which you think I wish to hear. Your words are important to me, and I would never want to hear anything but the truth."

She retrieves the black pearl drop, "Then you know that I speak the truth when I tell you that I love you."

He smiles at her, "Yes. I do."

* * *

As the year moves on into May, Norfolk returns with his retinue of prisoners; for that is what they are. This time, Aske is not brought to the palace. Instead, he is taken to the Tower.

"They are all locked up, Majesty." Norfolk says, rather proudly, "I have left Shrewsbury in the North to ensure that retribution is administered as you see fit."

Standing beside the rather pleased Duke, Cromwell bristles slightly. He wishes, almost fervently, that he could suggest that the King show magnanimity to the failed rebels - and perhaps offer the leaders fair, open trials. Such is Henry's thirst for blood, however, that he does not dare. Since the promised pardon has been cast to the winds, he knows that there shall be no mercy. None at all. They made their King look weak - and he has no intention of letting people continue to see him in such terms.

"Return to the North, your Grace." Henry says, "Know that I am well pleased with you - and take with you my expectation that those who rose against me shall know in the strongest possible fashion that I do not countenance treason. Spare none. None at all."

"Yes, your Majesty." Norfolk bows. If he shows any dismay at the appalling degree of blood he is being ordered to shed, he does not show it. Beside him, Cromwell shudders. No matter how much he disliked the rebels, no matter how much they caused him to sweat nervously that he might lose the only protection he has at Court, he would not have wanted it to end like this. _They are people like me_.

"We shall establish two juries in Yorkshire to decide where these vile traitors are to stand trial." Henry resumes as Norfolk leaves, "Let their own kind decide their fates. They can be tried either in Yorkshire, or in London - but make it known that I expect them to choose London."

"Yes, Majesty." Cromwell does not reveal his dismay. A London trial would be certain to result in all of the leaders being condemned to death - and who on those unfortunate juries would not know that? Again, Henry is making it clear that he shall punish all who rose against him, even to the point of using those who did not as part of their punishment - thus punishing those who stayed loyal, for the crime of not standing in the rebels' way, perhaps. _Who could love a King that punishes even the most innocent?_ But then, he recalls, Englishmen seem to value ruthless strength above all in their Kings - and what action could be more likely to inspire it?

And so, instead of a Parliament being summoned in York, instead two juries are called. All of them are friends to some degree of those accused, and - equally - all know that they are effectively being required to send all fifteen men to their deaths. The King has not said so openly, but they know that they must choose London as the location for the Trials - where his Majesty is assured of a guilty verdict, and condemnation.

 _Your Majesty, the Juries have agreed to the trials being held in London. TH._

Smiling wolfishly, Henry crumples the small missive, and drops it into the fire, "It's London, my Lords." He advises the assembled Councillors, who are all to serve in the forthcoming trials, "And so we shall ensure that all know the fate of traitors."

* * *

Sitting in a chair that becomes more and more uncomfortable with each passing hour, Rich squirms slightly and wishes he was safely back at his desk. The men being tried are, in the main, educated and articulate, and all defend themselves with a determination that belies their helpless state. They have not been granted any defence counsel, and the prosecutors ranged against them know full well that the Laws of England serve the requirements of the State, not the requirements of justice. He knew that when he acted against Fisher and More, and against Anne Boleyn and the men who died with her. He still knows it now - even though those who stand before the tribunal appear to think otherwise.

He is glad that he is no longer the Solicitor General. That task belongs to Whorwood now, and he is the one who oversees all. Rich is merely one of the jurors.

 _They all look so afraid…_

When he returns to Whitehall that evening, he is tired, sore and rather unaccountably miserable. While he has always felt guilty over his involvement in the destruction of Fisher and More, it seems worse these days. Back then, it was a necessity to act as he did - for it would ensure his future favour in the Court with those who could advance his career, and keep the King happy. Now, however, it seems craven and cruel. Much as the trial over which he and his fellow jurors are presiding.

Kat is waiting in his apartments when he returns, and he is more glad to see her than he could possibly express.

"You look tired, Richie." Her voice is kind, and suddenly, for reasons he cannot explain, his eyes are filling with tears.

"God help me, I am damned, Kat." He says, wretchedly, "They only wanted to have their 'old' England back, and now they face us in fear of their lives - for we must condemn them. The King demands nothing less."

She says nothing, instead holding him close as he clings to her. She is the only good thing in his world other than his children, a rock to which he anchors himself, for otherwise the maelstrom charybdis shall claim him, and take away the last vestiges of his conscience.

"Perhaps it is better not to care at all." He murmurs, later - much later - as she nestles against him in the warmth of his bed.

"No, my dearest," Kat whispers, softly, "If you did not care, then where would that leave me? I could not bear it if you did not care." She shifts slightly against him, and he feels the cold hardness of the black pearl on his chest. Even now, she still wears it.

"As long as you are with me, Kat," He says, his arms tightening about her again, "I shall always care."

Two days later, it is over. All fifteen defendants have been found guilty, and all are set to die. A few of the less involved, such as that foolish man Ralph Ellerker, have submitted to the King, claiming that they joined the insurrection only in fear of their lives, and have signed a written undertaking not only to never act against him again, but to inform upon any who does. Rich shudders, for he oversaw that procedure, watching silently as the tearful man scrawled his name upon the paper, overwhelmed with relief to be alive. Despite Kat's words, as she lay upon him two nights ago, he still wonders whether it is better not to care.

It is not only the survivors who are to return north, for Aske is to go with them. He, on the other hand, shall be hanged in chains from the walls of what remains of York's castle keep - that same Clifford's tower where the City's Jews were slaughtered two hundred or more years back. It is nothing more than a dilapidated prison now, and - thus - suitable for a criminal such as Aske is deemed to be.

The other condemned are set to die at Tyburn, but none of those who sent them there shall be present to watch the sentence carried out. Most would not wish to be seen in such low surroundings, while others are far too busy with work to be able to go.

Seated at his desk, Cromwell reads the latest letter from Norfolk, and feels a little sick - despite the necessity of a strong show of force, and the fact that the people involved supported an insurrection against their lawful King, the degree of bloodletting is truly shocking. Surely Norfolk does not feel pleased at this? Cromwell does not. But then - perhaps Norfolk indeed does not feel pleased, but thinks that he, Cromwell, does. Either way, the King shall certainly be pleased.

All in all, however, it is a relief to know that the insurrection is suppressed - for despite the King's assertion in public that it was nothing more than a minor rebellion in one of the backwaters of his Kingdom, Cromwell knows that it was certainly not. He dare not say so - none dare - but the threat against them was thwarted not by superior Royal might, but instead by Aske's desire not to fight, and a great deal of Royal chicanery. It is a stark lesson that he intends not to ignore - for he had almost forgotten his King's ability to dissemble if the need arises. But for that, he knows that he would not be alive now, for how could Henry have ignored the eighth of the twenty-four articles?

 _Crim, Cram and Rich_

 _With three 'L' and the lich_

 _As some men teach_

 _God them amend!_

He smiles, a little bitterly, at the half-verse, that he still remembers. It seems that God did amend - but not in the way that the Pilgrims wanted. He wonders if Aske remembered that as he was led to his death.

* * *

The array of victuals is enormous - sides of beef, herds of mutton, flocks of capon, bread in abundance and cauldrons of frumenty spiced with wine and nuts. There is more to celebrate than merely the end of a dangerous insurrection, for at last, at long last, Queen Jane is with child. She has known of her state since early April, but has kept the news to herself until recently, not wishing to risk the King's anger in the face of a miscarriage.

Although none says so, all know that the King has emerged from a dangerously weak position - but the failure of the rebellion, coupled with the announcement of Jane's pregnancy, has cemented his security to a degree that none have seen for many years, and his eagerness to celebrate could not be more strongly stated.

Cromwell watches the carousing with keen eyes. Of all those present, he had the most to lose - for without the King's favour he has no protection from those who wish him dead and gone. The deaths of all those who led the insurrection, coupled with his most careful management of his position has kept him secure and safe - and who would speak out against him now? With the King eager to continue the reforms that are in place, Cromwell quietly congratulates himself. He has survived.

Elsewhere, hidden away in a quiet corner, Rich is with Kat, who surreptitiously holds his hand. There are few people nearby to see them, but she is ever careful to hide outward signs of affection, even though their affair is hardly a secret.

"Thanks be to God." She says, quietly, behind her veil, "If He is truly kind to us, the child shall be a son."

"That would be helpful." Rich admits, "If we can shelve that wretched bill to legitimise his bastard, then perhaps he shall never see the throne."

"Those who are brave enough to make jokes about it are certainly saying much the same, Richie." She says, "They speak with careful amusement at his nose being put out of joint."

"Despite all, Kat, I doubt that his Majesty is fool enough to raise Fitzroy too high. There are too many tales of Kings being deposed by over-eager sons for him to risk such a thing. Now that he has proven to his people that he is so strong in the face of such enmity, I am sure he shall be most careful to protect his position above all. Besides, even though he has blamed the boy's retinue for it, he cannot ignore the fact that Fitzroy did not raise the troops he promised, nor did he depart from Collyweston to join with Norfolk."

"And when Fitzroy returns to Court?" Kat asks, "Is he not due to return to us today?"

"That remains to be seen." Rich looks up, as he sees the Privy Councillors congregating in the main body of the hall, "I must away, Kat." He turns to her, "Sup with me tonight."

"With pleasure, my Lord."

Cromwell does not comment as Rich appears at his side, he knows where his colleague has been, and does not begrudge him his pleasure. Instead, they join their fellow councillors, as the King rises to his feet. He does so rather slowly and stiffly, for his leg is troubling him again.

"In celebration of our great joy," he announces, "I welcome back my dear son, Henry."

All turn, and see Fitzroy, his expression proud, wrapped in velvets, silks and furs. Utterly assured in his every move, he marches briskly to the King's dais, where he bows deeply and floridly, "Your Majesty." He studiously ignores the rather hard stares that are coming from the King's councillors, as does the King.

"Welcome back, my boy!" Henry cries, delightedly, "In celebration of my great joy, for you are to have a brother, I have decreed that you shall be granted the lands of the former abbey of Easeby, and all holdings therein, along with the holdings of Bourne Abbey and Bradley Priory."

Cromwell turns to Rich, who stares, astonished, "That amounts to almost ten thousand acres of land, and hundreds of thousands of pounds - at my estimate," he whispers, "I would need to check to be certain, but they were the most recently listed as being available for onward disposal. It seems that I am no longer required to find buyers, then."

Still chattering ecstatically to his returned son, Henry waves to all to dismiss their attention, and guides Fitzroy back to the dais. As he does so, Cromwell pauses - for in all that he granted the youth, there is one thing missing. Fitzroy's legitimacy.

It seems, then, that Henry _does_ intend to wait and see what will come from Jane's womb. Perhaps he shall not need to put the Bill to Parliament after all. Pleased that things are settling at last, Cromwell turns to join his fellow Courtiers as they dine.


	11. The Woman with the Screeching Laugh

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 _The Woman with the Screeching Laugh_

As spring passes on into summer, the need to leave Whitehall is becoming urgent, for the stench of the river, coupled with the stink of middens around the Palace itself, has reached unendurable levels. With the King's apartments at Hampton Court under extensive refurbishment, the only other option at this time of the year is the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich, and so his Majesty decrees that this is the palace to which the court shall remove. He could go on progress, but seems not to be interested in doing so. Perhaps he does not wish to make himself freely available to his people in the bloody aftermath of the risings.

Either way, Cromwell is irked, for all Privy Councillors are still expected to attend meetings on a daily basis, thereby obliging them all to uproot and move as well. That his offices are based at Whitehall is immaterial, and so he is obliged to ensure that as many office functions are transported downriver as possible. While there are staff already in place at Placentia, most of the clerks shall have to travel as well, so he has Wriothesley organising them into teams to pack up what must be removed, while he presses Rich into helping him pack up the papers that they have accumulated in their investigation room.

"Do you have somewhere in mind at Placentia for all of this?" Rich asks, as he carefully tips tacks back into the tin pot.

Stacking papers into the coffers he has set aside, Cromwell nods, "I took care to ensure that there were suitable chambers available in all of the likely places to which we would be obliged to remove. I was expecting to be going to Hampton Court - but with the King's apartments unavailable he shall have to make do with Placentia. That is likely to irk him - Hampton is his preferred summer Palace."

As they work, all about them are packing, organising or making arrangements to go elsewhere. As Whitehall is one of the largest of Henry's palaces, there are some who cannot be accommodated at Placentia, for it is somewhat smaller, and thus they must either find alternative housing nearby, or simply go back to their estates. As the Countess of Oxford is not one such person, Kat shall be moving, too - which pleases Rich, for her presence at court is largely at the whim of her mistress, and, had her Grace opted to return to her estates, he would be quite bereft.

"She nearly did." Kat advises him as they sup, later that evening, "Her Grace despises Placentia, but she felt it would be better for all if she remained, for she has hopes of being named as a godparent to the new royal child - something that could become rather unlikely if she is not at Court in the coming months."

"And you are content to be stuck at court in the hot weather?" Rich asks, "Why not leave? It cannot be comfortable under that veil if you are in public."

"I could not leave." She says simply, and reaches across to take his hand. No indeed, she could not, and he is grateful for it.

Those papers which must be transported are now aboard two large barges, with the Clerks who are to go with them also aboard. Wriothesley is guarding the keys, and sits almost regally in the stern of the leading barge as the oarsmen push away from the Privy steps. With the river reeking as it does, his apparently privileged position is less than it appears, as his rather disgusted expression, and the presence of a strongly scented kerchief at his nose testifies to Cromwell, who remains on the jetty as he shall make the journey on horseback; an altogether more pleasant prospect in terms of aroma once one is across London Bridge.

Those of lesser import are always the first to remove, as are those who make life easier for the higher-born. The entire move shall take more than ten days, with so many people, and so much baggage, to transfer from one end of London to the other. Those who are prepared to endure the sewage-tinged stink of the river shall hire barges. Others shall travel by road. Cromwell might prefer to make the journey by river, for it is somewhat quicker, and more comfortable - if one has access to scented items to keep the stench at bay - but he has much to think about, and so he requires the longer journey time to accommodate his brain-work.

Rich, on the other hand, is not remotely impressed to be expected to do the same thing. He is, at best, an indifferent horseman, and the idea of spending most of a day in the saddle is not pleasant.

"We have much to discuss, Richard." Cromwell advises him, firmly, "And some of it requires at least a modicum of privacy. We have few opportunities to achieve such a level of freedom from prying ears - I intend to make the most of it."

They depart two days later, as the shadows are starting to shorten in the early morning. The day promises to be very warm, and already Rich is squirming slightly under the cloak that decorum demands that he wear over his thick doublet. As they make their way down the Strand, he regards the men working in their shirtsleeves with envious eyes.

"Does Wriothesley have the papers from our investigations?" he asks, attempting to forget how hot he is becoming.

Cromwell nods, "But I have the keys to the coffers. He knows to ensure that they are placed in the chamber I have set aside for our use." His expression darkens, "But I have still not the first idea where all of this leads us. None of the men that have seemed most likely to be suspects have turned out to be so."

"The killer has gone to remarkable lengths to remain hidden." Rich agrees, "To the degree, it seems, that he attends his victims with a set of clean shoes, and - one assumes - a set of clean clothes. From the state of the corpses, if Doctor Butts is to be believed, he should have left that chamber looking like a Slaughterman."

"And there seems to be no motive." Cromwell adds, speculatively, "I had thought that it might be that the women involved, thanks to their promiscuity, had invited the killer into their midst - but it now seems not to be so, for what of Miss Culver? She was known amongst the women for her refusal to engage in any illicit activity - of any kind. Thus the motive is invalid."

"Perhaps not." Rich says, "For was she not regularly accosted by men seeking a liaison? Neville did say, did he not, that he and Carew had considered claiming her virtue to have become something of a competition between them. Perhaps that was sufficient in the mind of the one who killed her. It is, after all, seen to be the prerogative of a man to bed any woman he wishes, against the expectation that a woman must be chaste." His tone is rather sardonic - for, after all, he is speaking very much of his own behaviour.

"In which case," Cromwell muses, " _All_ women at court are at risk - not merely those who are free with their attentions; though it seems likely that those who seek out more frequent liaisons and amours are in the most danger. But - if Carew _is_ responsible - then the danger is past."

"Let us hope that he is."

By midday, the sun is high, and the warmth is unpleasant. Having made the journey on regular occasions, Cromwell has an inn in mind where they can rest and eat; which is just as well, as he notices that Rich is starting to wilt under the layers of warm clothing that he is wearing. Cromwell is better at endurance than his colleague, having fought in wars in his youth; but he has also been rather more discriminating in his choice of garments, which are of considerably thinner fabrics despite their black hue.

The inn is set well south of the city, and resides alongside the small river Peck. Leaving their horses in the shade of an awning, both men are grateful for the cold ale from the inn's cellars, and Cromwell sits patiently as Rich peels off the excessive garments until he is down to his shirt.

"Perhaps you should bathe in the stream." He says, blandly.

"I am tempted." Rich admits, mopping at his face with a kerchief.

The heat of the afternoon is equally unpleasant, settling over the countryside like a thick blanket as they cross the Ravensbourne and enter the parkland that surrounds Placentia. Conversation died some time ago, and Cromwell is becoming quite concerned at Rich, who is drooping, red-faced and silent. He hopes to himself that his colleague is not going to faint and fall out of his saddle, and ensures that he is close by, in case he must catch hold of Rich's cloak.

Once safely in the stable yard, oblivious to the stares of the grooms, he bustles Rich across to one of the water troughs, where he soaks a kerchief in water, "Here - this is good and cold. Wrap it about your neck and sit in the shade awhile. I shall send for your manservant."

"Next time." Rich mumbles, "I shall travel by barge."

Leaving his indisposed colleague with his manservant, Cromwell makes his way to the room that he has set aside for the investigation. Wriothesley, with his usual brisk efficiency, has already ensured that the locked coffers have been delivered, so it is a simple matter to unlock them and retrieve the papers upon which he had hastily scribbled something of an index. Statements in this coffer, Observations and reports in this other one, interviews in that one over there…

There are too many papers to set about tacking them to walls again - not on his own, so instead he re-locks the coffers, locks the room and goes in search of Wriothesley to see how much progress he has made on establishing the removed offices. Knowing the Secretary well, he expects not to have to do much, and he is right.

"When shall his Majesty remove?" Wriothesley asks.

"In another two days, I believe." Cromwell advises, "Though he may change his mind. It is best to be ready for his arrival at any time - though I think that you are, are you not?"

"Of course." The Secretary sniffs, almost offended at the implied suggestion that he might not be.

By the end of the following week, all who can move to Placentia have done so, and the Court is busy with its pursuit of summer leisure. Being unable to indulge in many of his former pastimes, the King spends as much time as he can in the saddle, and the cold rooms are, consequently, full of game that he and his favourite Courtiers have run down on the hunt. Where he cannot take part, instead he watches as others risk their lives for the entertainment of the Court at the Tiltyard, or submit themselves to his rather expert criticism as they play tennis. Having once played extensively, he knows the sport well - and those who make errors are likely to find themselves showered with scornful invective for their shortcomings.

When she appears, the Queen's gowns are showing clear signs of being let out to accommodate the growing babe in her belly. She is radiant, while Henry behaves as though she is merely an incidental bystander in his magnificent feat of creating a son to succeed him. There is not even the slightest mention that the child is not a boy - and Cromwell is quite convinced that the child would not dare to be female.

Being back in favour again, the Lady Mary has returned to court in the aftermath of the rebellions. With their failure, and the executions of those who participated - which has now risen in number to over two hundred people - it is considered safe for her to return to her father's side. With Fitzroy also present, however, her rooms are still a cause for contention, and she is obliged to endure lesser quarters once again - though they are still sumptuous in comparison to those of lesser courtiers.

Cromwell, despite the enmity that exists between them - even if only on her part, feels some sympathy with her again. She has been lauded, then repudiated and made to deny her strongest beliefs in order to regain that which was taken from her - and even that has not been restored in its entirety. All talk about her is now of a new Prince of Wales, so her nose is out of joint on two counts. Once again, he hopes he shall not be at Court when the sowed wind becomes the whirlwind. A woman with her degree of pride - inherited from both parents - could not hope to retain a sense of equanimity in the face of such casual cruelty. That is the preserve of gentler women, such as Jane - who endures her husband's philandering without complaint.

The King, meanwhile, showers his affections upon Fitzroy, who is almost constantly now in his company. They hunt in the mornings, while Fitzroy observes the Council in the afternoon, and then seems to be required to remain at his father's side for the entirety of the evening as well.

"It must be so dull for him." Kat observes, from a quiet corner at the far end of the hall from the Dais.

Rich turns to her, "I think his Majesty is hedging his bets with that boy. If Queen Jane gives us a son, then the babe shall be our next King. If not, then he must want to be sure that Fitzroy is educated in the requirements of his station."

"I think he must never have so much as a moment to himself."

"The King does not - so it is best that he learn it now rather than discover it after the fact." He pauses, "I think Mary has had enough. Thomas mentioned this morning that she has requested consent from his Majesty to retire from Court until her Majesty goes into confinement."

"Poor girl. It must be dreadful to be standing aside as she must when once she was the centre of all." Kat's voice is heavy, and Rich knows that she empathises, for she has endured much the same, thanks to the smallpox.

"Shall we go?" he asks quietly. Her response is a tight squeeze of his hand, and he smiles to himself.

"My Lords!" the King says, suddenly, stopping the pair in their tracks, "I am most blessed to have such fine children - and another soon to join us. In thanks to God for his goodness to me, I have decided that my beloved son Henry shall, when my son is born, be granted the Dukedom of York!"

Rich stops dead, "Shit."

Even behind her veil, he knows Kat is staring at him in shock at his epithet.

"Now we've got no choice." He explains, crossly, "Cromwell shall have to put that damned bill before Parliament. He'll want Fitzroy legitimised before that child is out of the Queen's belly. Whatever happens, Fitzroy shall be a true Prince before the autumn is gone."

* * *

Cromwell is glowering at his desk. Of all the things to be thrown at him, the King's declaration that his bastard son is to be Duke of York, once a Prince of Wales is born, rankles extensively. In some ways, he almost hopes now that the Queen shall bear a girl.

 _No. Then his Majesty shall demand that we make Fitzroy Prince of Wales. God help us if he does that._

He looks across the offices from his desk, and sighs. The Court might be at leisure, but those who work to keep the Government of the Kingdom moving never enjoy such pleasures. Wriothesley is immersed in files, while Rich is scribbling away furiously in his speed-hand while working his way through a fearsomely tall stack of reports. With the failure of the so-called Pilgrimage of Grace, the King is even more determined to progress the closure of the monastic houses, and so the workload has expanded accordingly. Given, however, how many there are still to be closed, Cromwell expects the activity to be ongoing for at least another year, if not two or more.

If only his Majesty were as keen to implement his proposed Poor Laws - after all, for all their profligacy, many of the houses did offer a degree of succour to those most in need. If these are gone, then what is to take their place? Resistance from the wealthy is likely to be singularly dogged, for, after all, why should they hand over any of their extensive riches to those who have none - but they must do it, or the lack of aid for those who once turned to the great religious Houses could cause another rising. Cromwell is not blind to the rebels who wanted more than merely the overturning of the religious reforms.

And then, of course, there is still the problem of the unsolved murders. God, he needs more time in the day - either that or he must learn how not to sleep. He hates to have problems unresolved, and such things always gnaw at him until they are dealt with. The papers are again tacked to the walls of the room, and he still returns there every few days to re-read everything in the hope that, perhaps, something he has not seen before might fall out. His only relief is that there have been no deaths since the Court removed. Perhaps it _was_ Carew. He makes a mental note to send a courier to enquire whether there have been any unpleasant murders in the regions surrounding Carew's estate.

As midday approaches, his stomach growls and he realises he is slightly light-headed. He did not break his fast this morning, instead coming straight to his desk as soon as he had risen. He does not really have the time to eat, but better that than faint at his desk. Collecting Rich, for they now draw more comments when they are _not_ in each other's company than when they are, he repairs to the Hall.

"How goes the collation of the Commissioner's reports?" he asks.

"Slowly." Rich admits, "They are coming to me in ever greater numbers, and the discussions of the Court officers are tiresome. Suffice to say, however, that his Majesty shall be one of the richest Princes in Europe at this rate." He pauses, then continues, "Though I fear he spends it almost faster than it is accumulated. I believe he is now intent on remodelling St James's Palace - I have already been obliged to release funds to supplement those already provided for the ongoing works at Hampton Court. It seems that either his Majesty's plans are growing more grandiose with each idea that he has, or we are being extensively gouged by the masons."

Cromwell sighs. If he had had any plans for the destination of the monies coming in, it was not for vanity projects at the Palaces. He had been thinking more along the lines of a system of decent roads between the major towns; after all, with a growing economy, the lack of sensible means to transport goods is becoming desperately apparent. The world is changing, and he must battle alone against those who wish to keep things as they are.

The midday dinner is, inevitably, a rather snatched affair, and they are returning to their desks within less than half an hour, while those who have no work to do return to the endless business of finding something to keep them occupied. Rich envies them in one respect: while he would be hideously bored if he had no work to do, at least he could be with Kat more frequently than he is. No wonder people spend their days, and nights, seeking out affairs. If nothing else, it passes the time.

There is little to discuss at the Council meeting, and the King dismisses them all in less than twenty minutes, eager to get out of the Palace and ride in the sunny heat. Thus the grand Lords depart to the stables, while the lesser beings return to their stuffy chambers and the continually accumulating piles of papers.

The small packet of papers on his desk bemuses Cromwell for a moment, until he recognises the writing of Doctor Butts. Opening it, he finds within far more extensive notes of the three post-mortems that the doctor undertook. Summoning Rich, who is standing and staring in dismay at how much his pile of papers awaiting work has grown in the time he has been away, he departs to their investigation room.

"I really need to get back to my desk." Rich frets, "I am falling behind."

"Forgive me, Richard. I do not think this shall take long - for what else is there to find other than that which we already know?" Cromwell apologises, before handing over the report for Louise Knotte.

Rich's eyes flit over the text, "There is little more to report - except he managed to find the incision on her neck. He had thought it to be lost in the general damage that was inflicted, but it seems that he had failed to see it in the first instance for it was obscured by blood."

Cromwell looks up, expecting him to gag, but he does not, "Are you growing used to this, Mr Rich?" he asks again.

"Not by choice."

As Cromwell expected, there is little additional information in the papers - but with the discovery of the incision upon Miss Knotte's neck, at least they have consistency in the method, "As the method of dispatch appears to be the same in each case, I think it is safe to assume that each killing has been undertaken by the same person. I just wish it were possible to determine who that person is."

"I am still hoping that it's Carew. The lack of a body over the last few weeks suggests that it might be."

The sight of the Constable at Cromwell's desk when they return, however, suggests otherwise.

* * *

Standing beside Cromwell, Rich notices him almost seem to sag at the sight of the Constable's face, for it is no trifling matter that has brought him to the Offices. There is only one reason for him to be there.

"Another body, my Lord." The Constable confirms.

"God preserve us." Wriothesley mutters, from his desk. Without being prompted, Rich heads to his desk to fetch paper, quills ink and a board to rest on while he writes.

The stench is appalling, for the weather is still very warm. Cromwell sighs inwardly, for even his stomach is being turned by this, so he assumes that Rich shall struggle to even remain in earshot. To his surprise, however, his colleague calmly asks a trembling guard to fetch him a chair so that he can write more comfortably, and fumbles into a scrip for a kerchief and a small vial.

"As you said, my Lord," he advises, "I am becoming rather more used to this than I thought." Upending the vial over the kerchief, he drips the fluid within over the muslin, and Cromwell catches the scent of sweet spices that Rich uses. He has not brought scent with him, but instead some oil of lavender, as it has a far stronger perfume, and is not too offensive to him in close proximity. The pair are tying the kerchiefs over their mouths and noses when Butts arrives alongside the pale guard, who is carrying a chair and looks most keen to be elsewhere.

"I see you are both ready, Gentlemen." He says, fetching out his gauntlets again, "God above, this one is ripe. Do you have any more of that oil, my Lord?"

Seating himself, and setting out his writing equipment, Rich takes a moment to examine the floor, "Clean again." He mutters, and makes a quick note to that effect as he dates the page.

"I see the killer has reverted to type, then." Butts observes, looking about the small, not particularly well appointed room. As previously, the walls have sprays of blood upon them, not being so far away as they were in Sarah Culver's bedchamber. Muttering measurements to himself, Butts moves about, carefully. He takes care to avoid the inevitable footprints, before setting to work on measuring these, too, "Again - more than one size of foot, I think."

Satisfied, he sets the cord aside and turns to the ruined body, "Female again - clothing slit from top to bottom." He declares, though as Rich is actually looking into the room now, he no longer needs to describe in such detail, "Face disfigured, and upper body eviscerated." He checks the neck, "Yes - there is an incision again. It is here," He points, and Cromwell bends to look. Sure enough, a small slit has been cut into the flesh over the point where the strongest pulse would have pumped. The smell at such close proximity is sufficient to defeat even the lavender oil, and he rises hastily, "That is most offensive."

"It is." Butts agrees, "The heat has done much damage." He points, "Again - there is the womb. Excised and carefully left alongside the body."

Cromwell bends, checks and nods, "The pattern is being maintained, then."

"It would seem so."

"Then it cannot be Carew." He cannot hide his disgust. Their hoped suspect is no suspect, "Blast."

As Butts busies himself making another careful sketch of the scene, Rich sets his papers aside and removes the kerchief. There is one thing he has not yet searched for. Moving away, he finds his way to a window, and leans out of it for a while to breathe in the fresher air and clear away the lingering remains of the scent.

Yes. There it is - faint, and barely noticeable amidst the stink of the body; but it is there.

"There's Vetiver again, Thomas." He reports, retrieving his papers to make a note of it, "You'll need to clear the scent of lavender from your nostrils to catch it, though. It's fighting against the smell of the body."

Cromwell copies Rich, spending some time at the open window to eradicate the smell of lavender. When he returns, he grimaces, but sniffs a few times, "Yes. I smell it, too."

"I can only assume that the killer is using it to mask the smell of bodily matter that must be upon him when he departs." Rich muses, "Though if it is still noticeable now, he must be using it lavishly - Vetiver is not inexpensive. This is, to some degree, quite a costly enterprise."

"Then we can be assured that it is not a servant." Cromwell grumbles, "But not much else."

By late afternoon, Rich's notes are transcribed, and Cromwell has established that the occupant of the chambers was one Elizabeth Milton, a minor courtier in the entourage of one higher in status. In the meantime, the pile of reports that have been placed upon Rich's desk has grown to nearly six inches in height, and he gives up for the day in disgust.

It takes Kat nearly an hour to respond to his invitation to join him, "Forgive me, Richie, the Countess is unwell again. She asked that I remain with her."

"It is of no matter. You are here now." He indicates that she seat herself by the fireplace, where a chair and a cup of wine awaits her attention, "We were obliged to deal with another death today."

"I know," she sighs, "the Court is a-buzz with it. Do you know who died?"

"We think it was Miss Elizabeth Milton."

"Lizzie?" Kat looks very sad, "Poor girl - she had fallen upon hard times after Nicholas Carew was banished. He was her last amour - and she has no means of supporting herself except by maintaining liaisons with men. We were doing all that we could to keep her, for she could not find any other."

"Could you establish why that was?"

"You have not met Lizzie, have you?" Kat smiles, sadly, "If you had, you would understand why. She was a woman who could not keep a man for long, for she was not pretty, nor clever, nor witty - and she had the most appalling screeching laugh, which she unleashed without restraint, for she could not understand when to use it, and when not to. Thus her liaisons were frequent, but not long lasting."

"Frequent?" Rich asks, bemused.

"Men were, shall we say, _happy_ to invite her into their beds, and tended to pay quite handsomely for the privilege - but they could only abide her weak character traits for a short time, and eventually the benefits of her attentions would exceed the price. It was her living, for there are many men at court, and they come and go with regularity. Unfortunately, following the move to Placentia, the number of new men has fallen, and all that remain are those who have tired of her - or those who have not, but are not prepared to pay as handsomely they have previously."

"I am not sure I understand what you mean, Kat. Why would they pay so much for her, yet not keep her? Or, if she is as repellent as you suggest, why have anything to do with her at all?"

"She was very accomplished at certain activities." Kat smiles at him, a little coquettishly, then looks at him in surprise, for he still seems not to have worked out her meaning, "Are you being so dull on purpose?"

Rich shakes his head, slowly, "Alas, no. Why pay her a great deal, when the women of Cheapside would service them for less?"

She rises from her chair and leans in close to him, "She knew things that no woman on Cheapside could imagine."

His eyes widen, "God above, are we men truly so easily led?"

She does not reply. Instead her hands speak for her, and he lets out a sudden, sharp cry.

* * *

Busy at his desk, Cromwell fails to notice when Rich arrives in the offices, and settles in front of the enormous pile of reports without complaint. After half an hour, finally seeing his colleague, who is working diligently despite looking both distracted and unexpectedly cheerful, Cromwell frowns, and crosses to him, "You seem uncommonly well this morning, Mr Rich. Did you discover anything of use to us last night?" He moves away, and Rich follows him to their investigation room.

"It seems Miss Milton was obliged to make her living as Miss Knotte and Miss Hamme tended to do." Rich explains, as he sits down, "In Miss Milton's case, however, she was obliged to make use of certain other talents to secure the attention of the men at court, for she had nothing else to recommend her."

"Such as?" Cromwell prompts.

"Do I need to describe it?" Rich asks, pointedly; though Cromwell stares at him in surprise, for he has turned a rather cherry red.

"Perhaps not." He concedes, suddenly embarrassed, and hastily changes the subject, "I have received a preliminary report from Doctor Butts. It seems likely that Miss Milton had not been dead for much more than a day and a night - if that. The weather being as warm as it is led to her becoming malodorous rather more swiftly than usual, and thus she was discovered quickly."

"I take it we must begin questioning again, then." Rich says, "My backlog is growing with each passing minute, so the sooner we undertake the task, and complete it, the better." He is very eager to avoid returning to the subject of Miss Milton's talents.

"What about the Vetiver?" Cromwell asks, suddenly, "I have never used it."

"Nor have I," Rich agrees, "It is costly - though not beyond my means. I am not willing to pay so much for something that I would not wish to wear - it is not a scent that I find overly agreeable. Though many other men at Court feel differently, for it shows them to be men of means. Its strength is such that it is used as a fixative for other scents, too - and I am sure that I have noticed tinges of bergamot at times when I have detected that scent at the scenes, but it is a weaker fragrance and diminishes more quickly."

The Court proves to be as monumentally unhelpful as ever, offering only rumour, supposition and spite. None saw or heard anything at the proposed time that she was murdered, or at any point prior or after, and no names are suggested as potential subjects. With Carew banished from court, and Paxton, only Neville is still present, and he can vouch for his whereabouts - which he does with the most unbecoming smugness. Now they have no one.

Back in the investigation room, Cromwell sits at the table and glares at the papers in disgust, as though daring them to show him something that he has missed. He loathes to fail - hates to - and yet he seems to be helpless in the face of a killer determined not to be caught.

"Who are you?" He says, aloud, "You vile bastard. Who the hell are you? Why are you doing this? God help me, I shall not give up. I promise I shall not. I shall find you, and I shall send you to Tyburn to hang with the other murderers. _Damn_ you."

Still glowering, he rises from the table and leaves the room. Damn it. He shall never, _never_ stop looking.


	12. Darkness Comes to Call

CHAPTER TWELVE

 _Darkness Comes to Call_

After two days of constant work, with only the briefest of breaks to eat, and short sleep, Rich has finally cleared his enormous backlog of papers. If he could, he would join Cromwell in staring pointlessly at the papers they have accumulated in the investigation room; but there seems too little worthwhile reason to do so, and instead he writes a missive to Kat apologising for neglecting her, and inviting her to join him to sup tomorrow evening, for tonight he is too tired to desire anything other than sleep.

The room is uncomfortably warm, thanks to the large array of candles, without which neither he nor Wriothesley, who is also still present, would be able to see their papers. He has abandoned his furred simarre, and his doublet is open. It took him several days to recover from the effects of his overheating when they arrived at Placentia, and he has no wish to endure _that_ again.

Packing the papers into a coffer, Rich stifles a yawn and gathers up the simarre. Tired though he is, he would still prefer it if Kat could be with him; but the Countess has been ill again over the last few days, so she is probably as tired as he is. That said, no amount of exhaustion would be sufficient to keep him from her if she repeats the tricks that she showed him three nights ago. No wonder men gave Elizabeth Milton such gifts in payment. For a moment, he considers visiting her apartment to invite her to join him, but then decides against it - it is too late to impose upon her. He shall wait until the morrow.

His writing is not as neat as Rich's, and Cromwell sighs at the rather discordant effect his ungoverned scrawl imposes against his colleague's fine Chancery hand. With Rich so busy, he has taken it upon himself to make additional enquiries based on their observations of the sheer amount of mess that the killer has made - both to the surroundings and, presumably, to his garments. Thus he has spent an unpleasant afternoon in the damp humidity of the laundry, in hopes that the laundresses have received clothes that are excessively befouled with blood, or other substances. Not only was the time unpleasant, it proved also to be fruitless, for none of the women present could recall anything other than undergarments stained by women going through their monthly courses. He had had one frisson of hope when one mentioned large amounts of blood and gore - only to find himself disappointed to discover that the mess had come from a miscarriage earlier in the year.

 _How is he hiding himself?_ He thinks, crossly, _Who can possibly be helping him?_ Everything suggests a tight bond of loyalty - which equally suggests the Minions, for they are bonded almost like brothers. They close ranks immediately against anything that they consider to be a threat to their wellbeing or pleasure - he has found that over and over again throughout his investigation - and they are always together. Most of them are wealthy enough to afford Vetiver scent, though he was not, until recently, aware of it so he has no idea if any of them wear it. They regard him with quite enough scorn as it is, so to walk up to them and start sniffing shall cause them amusement if nothing else.

He yawns, widely, and decides to abandon the investigation for the night. There is nothing more that he can do - unless he wishes to stoke Rich's ire by asking him to rewrite the notes to make them appear consistent. Pinching out the candles, he locks up the doors and retires.

* * *

 _Why am I in here again?_ Cromwell thinks to himself, as he stares endlessly at the papers pinned to the wall. They made no difference to his ignorance last night, so why come back and hope that this morning shall be any different?

He looks up as the door opens to admit Rich, who seems to be thinking much the same himself if his expression is anything to go by. It seems that neither of them can leave things as they are - unlike the rest of the Court, who seem quite content to forget each incident within a day of its happening. Even the King seems to have lost interest in the continued killings of his Courtiers; perhaps he feels that they should be thinned out a bit.

Rich joins him, and they sit side by side on the table, each of them staring at the evidence that they have accumulated so far.

"So." Cromwell says, "Four victims. All women. All of lesser birth - but not servants, it appears."

"Not that we know of." Rich agrees, "I think the Constable would have told us if female servants were being killed."

"Generally of lesser means, and thus obliged to seek funds by obtaining gifts from wealthier men."

"To put it more crudely," Rich adds, as Cromwell appears to be too embarrassed by the idea, "Sleeping with higher placed Courtiers in the hope of receiving gifts from them." As this is, effectively, the course of his relationships with previous mistresses, he has no shame in saying so. It is, after all, different with Kat.

"In the eyes of many, however, such behaviour would be considered to be both wanton, and sinful." Cromwell continues, "Though not in the case of Miss Culver - who was most careful to guard her chastity well."

"But then," Rich continues, rather cynically, "She could afford to."

"She is still an aberration, however, for Miss Hamme, Miss Knotte and Miss Milton were all known for their openness to favours from the men of the Court. Unless, as you suggested, Richard, the killer viewed the attentions that she was rejecting to make her the equal of the others." He frowns, "I do not understand why that should drive any man to kill."

"I think that, if looks could kill, they should have died years prior." Rich admits, "For those of better means regarded them as little better than whores. Besides, with so little else for them to do other than embroidery, perhaps they cannot be blamed too much. What else is there for their entertainment?"

"I most certainly do not." Cromwell admits, "For I came from poorer stock even than they, though not from the lowest rungs of society - for my father could afford to have me educated to at least some degree. Most of the rest of my learning came from later in life - and I have gained much from my hard work since that time. No matter how hard they would have been prepared to work to improve their lot, they are denied the gainful employment that has enriched me alongside that which came to me by marriage and shrewd business dealings."

"And embezzlement." Rich adds, more quietly, for he is just as guilty, "Do not forget that. We are grotesque thieves, are we not?"

"Thus they are obliged to make what living they can from those about them." Cromwell continues, deliberately ignoring Rich's quip, "Each of them, then, is gentle-born, though of limited means, other than Miss Culver; all of them died in the same fashion - an opening in their throats to bleed them quickly. I assume that was done to silence them as soon as was possible - Butts tells me that such a wound would cause unconsciousness within a matter of minutes - if they were not unconscious already, though it is impossible to verify that."

"It would certainly explain why there was no sound of a struggle." Rich agrees, "Though I think it likely that they might have been at least dazed, surely?"

"Not necessarily. If the act with the knife was swift enough, a hand over the mouth would have been sufficient to quiet all until the victim was no longer able to call out."

"The fragrance of vetiver suggests to me that the killer is not a servant." Rich continues, "Vetiver is costly, and no servant could possibly afford it. While none would notice servants travelling about the palace, none would be of sufficient means to afford such an expensive fragrance."

"Perhaps the killer dresses as a servant in order to conceal themselves?" Cromwell suggests, "As you say, they are not seen as others are." He frowns, "No, how can that be the case? Why would any of these women admit an unfamiliar servant into their rooms? Surely they would dismiss them and await whoever sent them."

"Perhaps the killer's accomplices dress as servants?" Rich suggests, "They announce the killer, who is admitted, and then assist him in his departure."

He snatches up a quill, charges it and quickly scribbles the idea down in his speed-hand. They are clutching at straws, but what else do they have?

"Damn. I've run out of ink."

"There is charcoal if you are desperate to continue writing." Cromwell sighs, "So - we can safely presume that the killer is being admitted into the apartments without a fight, for the rooms are not in disarray, and show no sign of having been hastily restored after the fact. The manner in which the victim is dispatched is quick and efficient - albeit extremely bloody, thus granting the killer ample time to carry out his depraved actions without fear of the sound of a disturbance drawing attention. He has assistance, for none of the blood or matter is tracked out despite extensive footprints in the rooms - and no one sees a man in the halls coated in blood."

"The clothing is either being disposed of after each killing, or laundered elsewhere." Rich adds, "For, according to these hideously badly written notes on the subject, none of the Laundresses have noticed anything unusual amongst their work."

"I do not write as neatly as you, Richard. That is the way of things. If you are that dismayed, rewrite the notes."

Rich is looking at the papers, frowning. Fetching a sheet of paper, he grabs a small stick of charcoal and leans on the table, scribbling.

"What? The other notes are in your writing."

"I was just looking at the dates of the deaths." He says, "There is no consistent pattern: The first took place in July, well before the October rising in Lincolnshire - and then nothing. The second was at Christmastide, and the third just past New Year - but, again, there were no further deaths until this one just past - and it is halfway through July."

They look at each other. There can only be one truly logical reason why the deaths should be so oddly spaced, and Cromwell puts their thoughts into words, "The killer is not regularly at Court."

* * *

"How are we to verify who has been here, and who has not, during these periods?" Rich asks, worriedly, "The population of the Court varies so widely, and people are back and forth so frequently - the pool of suspects shall be all but impossible to narrow down, shall it not?"

"We shall certainly cause much ire if we recommence questioning on such a matter. I am only familiar with the comings and goings of the royal family - not the Courtiers."

"At least we can discount Palace servants." Rich says, "They are always present, except for those in the retinues of the Lords, and I cannot imagine that they have the time even to sleep, much less engage in murderous activities of such nature. Therefore we need only concern ourselves with the Courtiers who are currently present at Placentia - for the killer must still be here. Thus we need to uncover the movements of everyone who is here, to see if they tally with the dates of the murders…" his voice trails off.

"What?"

"Jesu - that is a _lot_ of people."

"I doubt that it could be one of the higher-placed Lords," Cromwell muses, "For they are too well known. I am quite certain that there would be extensive comment if, say, Suffolk were to be seen prowling the corridors of the lower-ranked female courtiers."

Rich snorts with mild amusement. He is well aware of the Duke's reputation as a rake in his younger days - and Brandon is still not above the occasional affair now and again.

"Perhaps we should divide them into two lists." Rich sighs, "One for you, and one for me. We could commence each interview by sniffing. If they do not smell of vetiver, we can stop at that point."

"And be considered to have gone mad? Credit me with some dignity, Richard."

"With things as they are, Thomas, I think our dignity is of the least concern. If this man kills again, then we have failed once more - I do not wish to keep on finding rooms splattered with blood."

The list of courtiers that they must consider is horribly large; far too large for either man to set down without approaching the Master of the Household, and even splitting it into two would not reduce the task in simplicity, "I think it would be far easier for us if it _were_ a member of the royal family." Rich grumbles, "There are only two men to consider."

"Do you think the _King_ is doing this?" Cromwell asks, his eyebrow heading towards his hairline.

"Or Fitzroy." Rich grins, "Now _that_ would solve more than one problem, would it not?"

"And see our heads struck from our shoulders, Richard. I would not go about suggesting _that_ in public."

"God above, Thomas - do you really think the King would countenance a crime as grave as this from his son?"

"Quite possibly; I should not mention it again."

"I do not intend to. Even I am not fool enough to risk a facetious comment being overheard and taken seriously."

* * *

"The list of Courtiers currently resident, my Lord." The Master of the Household advises, setting down a rather nervewrackingly large ledger, "These are the ones to whom apartments are currently assigned, with the appropriate allowances set out alongside."

Cromwell stares at it. Rich was right: this is a _lot_ of people - it shall take hours to split into two lists - and days, no, _weeks_ to approach them all. In which case, best not to mention the vetiver. Word shall get round about that, and the killer would stop using it. He sighs; he is fighting against someone who is well practised in their activity, and has not yet made any error. Even the use of the fragrance is not sufficient - for many men at Court wear it. God above, once it gets out what they are asking, the killer can even ensure that all evidence of their movements is safely obscured. It seems hopeless: no matter what they discover, there is a way of neutralising it.

There are just too many people, "Do you maintain records of when people are present, and when they are not?"

"I do not." The inoffensive man replies, "The Mistress of the Maids might be able to assist you, however, for she assigns maids to the chambers, and if the chambers are not occupied, then she reassigns them elsewhere. Whether she records that, however, I could not say."

"Of course I keep records, my Lord!" Cromwell cringes slightly at the volume of the woman's voice, and her clear offence that he has suggested otherwise, "How else am I to keep track of where the maids are working, and their hours? I am required to submit reports to the Exchequer department so that the Courtiers can be charged for their services!"

"Forgive me, Ma'am." He apologises, contrite, "Might I be permitted to examine the records? I am undertaking an…audit…at the King's order." He opts not to suggest that this request relates to the killings.

Again, the ledger is enormous, and he sighs inwardly at the sight of it. This is going to take _days_. Better, though, than weeks.

Rich looks at the two sets of records, and sighs, "God. This is going to take forever, isn't it?"

"I fear so." Cromwell agrees, "But if it identifies a suspect, then it shall have been worth the effort." He looks at Rich's pile of papers, which has grown again while they were in the investigation room, "I shall commence the exercise, I think. You can take a turn on the morrow."

"I can hardly wait." Rich grumbles, turning back to his backlog of paperwork.

Cromwell's afternoon is a long drag of tedium and frustration. Some, he can discount immediately, for they are currently away from Court, but the long list of records of the activities of the chambermaids goes back over the preceding year, and is set out in linear fashion, requiring him to go through endless pages in order to find relevant entries. After an hour, he has been able to account for the whereabouts of a mere five people. The Household ledger for Placentia contains nearly six hundred names.

 _I don't have time for this. No one has time for this_. He cannot ask Rich to spend a day in such endeavours - not with so many reports coming in from the Commissioners; and he cannot spare the time either. There must be an easier, quicker way - but, if there is, he cannot think of one. Not even his small army of Clerks could spare the time to do it. Perhaps he should just accept the humiliation and go about the court sniffing people's scent. It would certainly be faster than this.

Rich looks up as he comes back to the offices. He does not enquire, for he knows that the task is Sisyphean in scale, and probably even more frustrating. That he must endure the same ordeal tomorrow does not appeal in the slightest - perhaps he should feign illness instead.

"I think I shall repair to the Hall to sup." Cromwell says, with surprising patience given the frustrating nature of his afternoon.

"I shall join you." Rich says, gathering his papers together to lock away.

"I am reconsidering the idea of checking the ledgers." Cromwell admits, as they head to the Hall in hopes of arriving for the first remove, "It shall be an impossibly long task to complete - and no one in the office has the time or the patience to undertake the task."

"Not even Wriothesley?" Rich smirks. Even Cromwell smiles at such a suggestion.

The spread of victuals is, as expected, fresh from the kitchens and, thus has not lost too much heat. The Hall is relatively quiet, for the King has opted to dine in private with Queen Jane, so the entertainments shall be rather more subdued than they would be if he were present.

"Are you not planning to sup with Miss Silverton tonight?" Cromwell asks, suddenly.

Rich reddens again, but does not elaborate. After Kat's demonstration of Lizzie Milton's apparently legendary skills, he has opted not to waste time supping when she joins him. That said, the last thing he wishes to do is explain such activity to the resolutely staid and almost monastically celibate Cromwell. Having found out for himself precisely why men were so keen to grant gifts to the woman who was not pretty, not witty and not clever, he wishes to revisit the experience with a woman who, while not considered to be pretty, is certainly witty and clever. He has claimed a better bargain than those who sought out Lizzie Milton, even if few would agree with him.

Excusing himself, he hastens to his apartments, hoping that Kat has also supped, though his invitation to her was supposed to include victuals. After their last liaison, perhaps she might guess that he would prefer to move straight on to more pleasurable activities.

She is not present when he arrives, which does not concern him unduly, for the Countess has been very demanding of late. She is almost certainly unwell again. Although he is glad that she has not done so, he wonders why she remains at Court instead of retiring. Surely she is not still convinced that she shall be a godparent to the Queen's babe? Seating himself beside the fireplace, with only a small applewood fire burning, for the weather is still quite warm, he nurses a cup of sack and settles in to wait.

 _She's trying that headdress again._ He thinks to himself after an hour, rising from his chair. Best to go and help her extricate herself from it again. He smiles at the thought.

He is still smiling as he reaches her apartments. As usual, he does not bother to knock, "Come now, Kat - you should know better than…"

He stops, frozen dead in horror at the ghastly scene that confronts him, "Jesus! Oh dear God, Christ have mercy!"

* * *

Cromwell is startled at the sound of hammering upon the door of his apartments, and hastens to open it, as his manservant is busy elsewhere. There is a frightened looking guard outside, "What is it?"

"Beg pardon, my Lord," the young man says, "The Constable asks you to come with me, immediately."

He does not even pause to grab his simarre, hastening instead after his escort. There can be only one reason for the frantic summons, but he is not prepared for the scene that he encounters.

Rich is on the floor, being manhandled by the Constable, "For God's sake! Fetch Doctor Butts - fetch him, she needs him, oh dear Christ, let me to her! Please!"

"I cannot, my Lord!" the Constable shouts over him, "The Lord Privy Seal insists that naught be disturbed within!"

"Kat!" Rich screams, "Kat! I'm here! I'm here, please, please don't go! I'm here!" he is fighting, trying to break away from the Constable's grip.

Cromwell pauses only briefly, as he already knows what he shall see beyond the door. Instead, he crouches beside Rich, "I am truly sorry, Richard. Truly. There is nothing that is to be done."

"Let go of me!" Rich is still fighting, "Let me to her! For God's sake! I beg you, she needs me at her side - please let me to her! Where the hell is Doctor Butts? Oh Christ! Kat!"

He turns to the guard that escorted him, and sees that they have attracted something of a crowd, "Get this place isolated - move these vultures on. Now! Then find Doctor Butts!"

"That is in hand, my Lord," The Constable pants, blown by his continuing efforts to restrain Rich, who even now is still trying to fight free of him, "I have sent a note, for Sir Richard was frozen still when I came upon him - I was nearby, dealing with a drunkard…" he breaks off, as Rich gets close to breaking from him, and reestablishes his grip, "…when I heard his cry. It was only when other people appeared that he began to try to enter the room."

Cromwell grips Rich's shoulders, "Look at me, Richard. _Look at me_."

His eyes wide, all of his anguished desperation written large upon his expressive face, Rich complies.

"I am sorry - I am truly sorry, but there is nothing that anyone can do. She is gone - no matter what went before, now she is at peace - for she is not suffering. I cannot let you to her. I wish that I could, but I cannot." Cromwell hears footsteps, and looks up to see Doctor Butts approaching.

"Doctor!" again, Rich is fighting the Constable, but this time to appeal to the approaching physician, "For God's sake - she is hurt, she is grievously hurt, please help her - I beg you!"

Butts takes one look inside the door, and sighs, "There is nothing I can do for her, Sir Richard. You have seen the outcome of these acts. I cannot restore to life one who is gone from it."

"Damn you! She needs your aid! Why will you not help her?" Despite everything, Rich refuses to accept the Doctor's words, "Save her! I beg you, save her!"

"I cannot. You ask the impossible of me." The kindness of his voice attempts to blunt the brutality of his words, but rather than demand action, instead, Rich crumples to the floor and moans, hopelessly.

Butts turns to Cromwell, "I can do nothing until I have aided him. Help me get him to his quarters."

Cromwell nods, "Secure the scene, Constable. We shall be as quick as we may."

The Constable sighs, "Yes, my Lord. I hope that he shall not be too long in grief." He turns to the guard, "Fetch Thoms and Bickerstaff. See if any others are in the guard room."

Rich puts up no protest as Cromwell and Butts escort him back to his apartments. All the fight seems to have gone out of him, and he is silent. Once there, Butts turns to Cromwell as Rich's Manservant comes to their aid, "I can manage here. Return to the scene - you shall need to make the notes today."

His eyes sad, Cromwell nods, "Take care of him. I shall see you anon."

"Come. You should rest, my Lord." Butts turns his attention to Rich, who follows him: his expression almost lost, "I shall give you something to help you to sleep."

As he is seated on his bed, Rich suddenly seems to return to life, "Doctor - if you cannot save her, then I beg you - she wears a pendant - a black pearl drop, on a gold chain, set with gold vines and leaves. You must find it - a black pearl. She always wears it."

"I shall," Butts answers, quietly, as he turns to pour some wine from a flagon, "Six drops, I think." He mutters to himself.

"Promise me!" Rich insists, "A black pearl - on a gold chain with gold vines and leaves. Promise me!" he clutches at Butts's arm with such a grip that the doctor almost drops the cup.

"I promise." Butts says, quietly, with all the sincerity that he can muster, for it is clear that Rich shall not let the matter drop unless he does, "Now, you must drink this. It is poppy extract, and it shall help you to sleep."

"I cannot - you need me to make notes…"

"We can manage, Sir Richard. You have endured a great shock - it is best that you rest and recover. You can assist us in the morning." He can hardly stand to look at the grieving man, so deep is the pain etched across his face.

Drooping, defeated, Rich takes the cup, "I should rather this were poison."

"It is not. For we need you to aid us in bringing this monster to justice. Would you not want that for Miss Silverton?"

He does not answer. Instead he swallows the contents of the cup as though he still hopes it to be toxic, and end his life. Taking a seat nearby, Butts waits patiently until he sleeps.

* * *

Cromwell is still standing in the doorway when Butts returns, his expression unreadable, "Is all peaceful?"

"It is. I gave him poppy extract in wine, he should sleep for the rest of the night, and possibly into tomorrow."

"God help us."

"We must set our feelings aside, my Lord." Butts says, firmly, "Miss Silverton deserves nothing less than our fullest attention if we are to find the man who killed her."

A guard arrives at their side, carrying writing equipment, "As you requested, my Lord."

"Is all as we have come to expect?" Butts asks, quietly, as he dons his gauntlets again. Cromwell nods.

"Then it is as before - the same killer, the same method, but I shall take care to examine her to be sure. Sir Richard would never forgive us if we did anything less, and I am not sure that I could do so either."

The examination takes much longer, not merely for their care, but because they lack Rich and his ability to note their words _verbatim_ as they speak them. His voice an odd monotone, and slower than usual to enable Cromwell to keep up with him, Butts quietly narrates as he works, "The face is cut until unrecognisable, and there is an incision into the neck at the same spot as with the previous victims. The upper body is eviscerated, all organs removed without care or thought, while the womb has been excised and set beside the remains."

Cromwell notes as best he can. For the first time, he feels nauseous - for this time the killer has not merely taken a life, but it is as though he has struck at them; deliberately, personally. Rich's relationship with Kat was hardly a secret, and neither of them believed that it was - despite their discretion. Did the killer know that, or was she selected because she was sleeping with a man out of wedlock? He cannot tell, and the frustration gnaws at him.

As previously, Butts sets to work with his measuring cord, establishing the extent of blood spurts, the sizes of the footprints and the degree to which the gore has been spread. As always, there is nothing beyond the door, and, now that he knows to check for it, Cromwell can detect, just, the smell of Vetiver - almost obliterated by the reek of the corpse, but not quite.

His notes complete, he turns to Butts, who is carefully searching, "What are you looking for?"

"Sir Richard asked me to find something - but I cannot."

"What is it?"

"A jewel - a black pearl on a gold chain. He claimed that she always wore it - but it is not about her neck."

"Does she have a jewel box?"

Butts turns and sees a small coffer on a nearby dressing stand, "It is not in here, either. Do you think she might have lost it?"

"I do not think it likely - a woman of her station would have taken extreme care with her jewels, for they could not be replaced. I think perhaps the killer might have thought it a fine bauble and perhaps taken it."

"Do you think we shall find him with it?"

"Not unless he wears it on open display - and I think not even one such as this monster would be such a fool." Cromwell has no idea why the killer would be so stupid as to steal something, but still he makes a note of it, "I wonder if he took items from his other victims."

"Why would he do such a thing? Surely that would put him at risk of discovery?"

"I cannot begin to imagine; but there is no accounting for the depravity of the human mind, Doctor Butts. I shall make a note of this - a black pearl drop set into gold vines and leaves, did you say?"

"I did. Sir Richard was most insistent."

Cromwell frowns. Of all the things to be insistent upon - a jewel; though a pearl of such rarity would doubtless be expensive…

Furious with himself for such a thought, he gathers his papers together, "Could you see to Miss Silverton's removal to a place where you can conduct the post mortem?"

"I shall ensure that she receives every care."

"How long ago did this likely happen, Doctor?"

"I cannot say for certain. From the state of the corpse, I would think it likely that she has not been dead more than a day - it is probable that the killer came to her last night." He removes a gauntlet, and rests his hand on Cromwell's forearm, "I am truly sorry that it has come to this. I shall endeavour to find all that I can to help you run down this depraved beast."

"Thank you, Doctor."

By the light of a single candle, Cromwell sits at the table in the investigation room, and struggles with himself to remain objective. He cannot afford to make this a personal vendetta - or he shall act rashly, and unleash God knows what degree of suffering. Why did it have to be Kathryn? Of all the women to meet their end at the hands of this monster, why her? Perhaps the killer might have considered her no better than the four previous victims. But this is different: Kat was loved.

He reviews his notes, and attempts to begin a clearer transcription, but his eyes keep misting over. Somehow, Kat's death, and Rich's anguish, have raised the shade of Liz once again, and he wishes, more than anything, that she were with him. He would give anything, truly anything, to be able to hold her close and talk to her of this dreadful affair.

"I miss you, Liz…" he whispers, "and yet, I am glad you are not here to see this. The world is coming all to pieces, and I am at the centre of it. God… _I miss you_ …"

And then he is in tears.

* * *

The candle has burned much lower when Butts appears in the investigation room. He notes Cromwell's reddened eyes, but does not draw attention to them, "I have moved Miss Silverton's remains to the last remaining cellar that is not filled with game." he sighs, "I shall commence the full post mortem on the morrow - though I cannot begin to imagine that there is anything else I shall find."

Cromwell sighs. He knows that Butts is taking care to manage his expectations, "I have made some inroads into transcribing my notes. Perhaps it may be that the theft of this pearl shall show us a new direction to follow."

"Perhaps." Butts agrees, "I am returning to Sir Richard's quarters, to see if he still sleeps."

There is no direct invitation, for Butts knows that he is not likely to go there alone. He is right.

Butts takes care to choose a route that shall avoid the murder scene, where the household staff are in the process of cleaning the hideous mess, "I have also arranged with another of the Countess's retinue to oversee the collection of Miss Silverton's possessions for dispatch back to her family. There is no suggestion that she made a will, so all shall go to her parents."

Cromwell sighs. He knows that this news shall wound Rich even more than he is already hurt. They are not a valid couple, and thus he cannot be present when she is consigned to the ground, nor can he claim even the most simple keepsake from her, "I am not sure if Sir Richard would wish it - but in case he does, could you preserve a lock of Miss Silverton's hair?" If they cannot retrieve the black pearl, then hopefully he shall accept that in its place - though even now Cromwell cannot avoid a rather uncertain thought that Rich only wants the pearl back because of the cost of it.

There are people about, for the evening is not too late. With all that has happened, it feels to Cromwell as though days have passed. How can it be that, only this afternoon, they were making facetious comments about the killer having a royal identity? Somehow, he wonders if he, or Rich, shall ever laugh again.

Rich's Manservant admits them, and confirms that his master is still sleeping, before offering them some sack, which they both politely decline.

Rich himself is stretched out on the bed, atop the covers, but with one of his warmer cloaks spread over him. His breathing is heavy, as would be expected from a drugged sleep; but at least he sleeps, and is not being forced to endure the pain of loss. Not yet, at least. Carefully, Butts takes his pulse, to ensure that he is not too deeply drugged, and nods, "He shall not wake until late tomorrow morning, I think. There is little we can do for him at this time - I suggest that you return to your quarters to rest."

Cromwell shakes his head, "You should rest. I shall remain here."

"He shall not wake, my Lord. There truly is no need."

"I think there is."

Butts sighs, then nods, bows and departs.

The room is silent but for the breathing of its occupants. Seated in a chair at the side of the bed, Cromwell watches sadly over the man whom he had once so disliked, but now regards as a friend. How strange that they should have bonded over a string of murders - but now, death has come calling upon them, and has struck at them with the cruellest of blows.

 _We must find him,_ he thinks, _I cannot put Richard through another death after this. We must stop this - Kat must be the last. She has to be…_

But still he does not know who he must stop. Until he does, how can he stop it?

Cromwell remains silent and still throughout the rest of the night. He is not sure if he has slept, though he thinks it likely that he has - even if only for the shortest of times. Rich has not stirred at any point, and is still unconscious. In some ways, Cromwell wishes that they could keep him like that until all is done - then he would not have to know if any more are killed.

He can see light emerging through a crack in the curtains, and knows that dawn has come. It shall still be early, for it is not yet the end of July - but at least there is light again. He had felt, during the night, that it might remain dark forever.

Rising from the chair, he steps out into the main chamber, where John is setting out bread, butter and some boiled eggs to be shelled, "I was not sure if Sir Richard would want to break his fast, my Lord, but I think he might not. These are, then, for you?"

Cromwell does not want to eat, but then he does not wish to appear rude, either, so he makes a small meal of one of the eggs, and a small chunk of buttered bread. As he rises, to return to the still silent bedchamber, there is a knock upon the door, and John admits a Steward armed with a note.

 _My Lord, I decided not to wait - for the King intends to hunt and is likely to demand the use of the cellar. I do not wish to raise hopes too high - but, it may be that we have some new evidence. Please come as swiftly as you may. WB._

Cromwell reads the note several times, attempting to take in the import of the words. His hopes are probably too high - but they have had so little. Now, perhaps, they might be about to turn a corner.


	13. The Diktat of Sumptuary Laws

**A/N:** Thank you for your review, Isica - and ongoing thanks to all my readers. I'm chuffed that people are enjoying this tale. To celebrate - here's another chapter...

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 _The Diktat of Sumptuary Laws_

Cromwell turns to the door, then stops. He cannot leave Rich behind - not if this is something that might lead them to the killer. Rich would never forgive him, and he is not entirely sure he could forgive himself. His only concern is that Butts's poppy juice might have too strong a hold.

Returning to the bedchamber, Cromwell pauses again. Rich is silent, still sleeping and oblivious of the horrors that he witnessed last night. Why drag him back from that? But then, if he doesn't…

"Richard," He says quietly, shaking the recumbent man's shoulder, "Forgive me, but you must wake. Doctor Butts has summoned us."

He is obliged to shake more roughly, and speak more loudly, to reach through the grip of the poppy juice; but after a considerable period, Rich frowns, moans something unintelligible, and finally opens his eyes.

"Thomas?" He looks up, a little dazed, and surprised, "What is it? What has…"

And then he stops, as the awful remembrance strikes him. Cromwell cannot keep a lump from his throat as he watches the terrible wave of realisation wash across a face that speaks every emotion that Rich feels, "Kat…" he whispers, very faintly.

"I am sorry," Cromwell says, his own voice a little thick, "I would not have woken you - but it may be that Doctor Butts has something that shall aid us in finding the creature that did…that…" his voice trails off.

Slowly, Rich sits up, and pulls the cloak aside. His clothes are crumpled, his hair untidy; but he seems to be, at least mostly, aware of his surroundings, "Then we should go."

As they return to the main chamber, Rich stops again, "Did Butts find it?"

"Find what?" Cromwell asks, bemused.

"The pendant - a black pearl drop. I gave it to her last Christmastide…" he turns back, his eyes speaking that same appeal.

Cromwell stares at him, revolted: his mistress, a woman who truly loved him, and whom he claimed to love, died brutally two nights past - and all that Rich seeks is a…a…bloody _jewel_? It seems that, at the last, Rich is only ever out for himself, then.

"We did not." He says, bluntly, "We could not find it in her rooms. It was our thought that the killer must have taken it."

Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows that he has assumed wrongly, and wishes with all he has that he could take them back. Rich sinks into a chair alongside the table, his expression distraught. It is not the value of the jewel that he is considering, but its worth to him as something of hers…

"It was precious to her…" he whispers, faintly, "she always wore it…it was the last that was left of her, and it is gone…she is gone…oh Christ, she is gone…" and then he slumps across the table, and sobs.

* * *

Cromwell stares helplessly, for he knows that his brutal words have triggered this collapse. That it would have come at some point is immaterial; it has come now, and he has caused it. Cursing himself, he snatches at a chair and draws it up so that he can sit alongside Rich, "Forgive me, Richard - I beg you. I did not see the worth of the black pearl to you in terms of its preciousness to Miss Silverton. I knew not its significance to you or to her. If the killer has taken it, then we shall wrest it back from him. I promise you: I shall do all that I can to find him and restore it to you."

Rich does not reply; Cromwell wonders if he even heard the words at all, "Doctor Butts has promised to save you a lock of her hair."

Slowly, painfully, Rich looks up, "Her hair?"

"It is something of her, is it not?" He had not been so fortunate with Liz - for nothing of hers was to be kept after she died of the sweat.

Rich nods, vaguely; but seems disinclined to move. Cromwell knows that they have only a limited time, for with the King intent on another hunt this morning, the only remaining cold room in the palace is likely to be demanded to house game, and he has no intention of forcing such an indignity upon Kat's mortal remains as to be obliged to share it with maturing quarry awaiting the Court's consumption.

"We must go, Richard. You do not need to be present if it is too painful…"

"No. I have to." Rich looks up, his expression much firmer now, "For her. For Kat. I have to."

Somehow, despite all, Cromwell knows that his determination is forced, that he is pushing the pain back as far as he can so that he can continue - but whether or not Rich seeks justice or vengeance, he cannot say with any certainty. Should whatever it is that Butts has found prove to be a false find, then Lord alone knows what shall happen.

Butts is waiting for them in the corridor outside the succession of cold rooms, his expression grave. He does not comment at the sight of Rich, but instead takes them to one side.

"In my examination, I found all was as we have come to expect from this individual." He explains, quietly, "There was, however, one thing that was not; for Miss Silverton was grasping something very tightly in her hand." As he speaks, he raises his right hand and opens it to reveal a stiff fragment of something that looks almost black, "I think it might be a piece of cloth, though I cannot tell what sort, or ascertain a colour, for it is stiff and covered with blood; forgive me, my Lord." He finishes, looking towards Rich, who seems to sway slightly.

Butts says nothing more, but Cromwell wonders how he extricated it from Kat's hand. If it had been so tight a grip that the killer had been obliged to leave a rent piece of his garment within it, then it is likely that Butts had no choice but to break her fingers to extract it.

"She knew." Rich murmurs, softly.

"My Lord?" Butts asks, confused.

"She knew - she must have known why he was there. She did this to grant us some aid, even as she knew she could not save herself…she knew…" His eyes are brimming again, but he does not break, "Her last gift. Kat's last gift…"

"A truly courageous woman." Cromwell agrees, "And we must endeavour to ensure that her brave act was not in vain. Doctor, fetch a basin of water - we must ascertain the type of cloth with which we are dealing."

Butts is not gone long, returning with a large pitcher of water in one hand, and a copper basin in the other. Slowly, carefully, he washes the stiff fragment in several changes of water, gradually revealing its form.

It is quite thick and quilted; a piece of velvet - though the nap is utterly ruined, but as its colour is revealed, and its decoration, they all stare at it in confusion - for it cannot be possible.

"Crimson," Butts whispers, "And the embroidery of the quilting is gold thread…"

"It is no wonder that we could not find the killer amongst the Courtiers," Cromwell says, his voice equally low, "for, if this cloth speaks truth, then our killer is not a Courtier. None would dare to wear a cloth as fine as this."

That can mean only one thing: the killer is a noble, or possibly even higher.

* * *

They are silent for several minutes, attempting to process the discovery that has changed everything so utterly. The rank of their suspect is now far, far higher than they could possibly have imagined, for only the most highly ranked at Court would be permitted to wear crimson velvet embroidered with gold thread.

All know the requirements of the Sumptuary Laws - designed to prevent people from being overly luxurious in their dress and living. Even the garments that are worn are subject to restrictions - none below the rank of Earl would be permitted to wear something as fine as this - and most even at that rank would not dare to in this Court.

"A Duke, perhaps?" Rich hazards, "Norfolk might be able to wear crimson velvet - and possibly Suffolk - though Norfolk has the stronger pedigree and more royal credentials. I have never seen any Earl dressed so; the King would never permit it - even though the Law would."

While the discovery has significantly narrowed down the pool of available suspects, it has equally increased their danger if they attempt to identify their man. Not one of the Dukes at court, royal or otherwise, would be likely to acquiesce to their demands to question them, and all of them have the ear of the King to a sufficient degree to see all three investigators to the block. That they must now tread carefully is obvious, for their adversary is far more powerful than they.

"I shall compare records." Cromwell says, quietly, "Now that we know our suspect is of the highest rank, it shall be a far simpler task to match their presences and absences than it would otherwise have been. If we can at least divine a name, we can then concentrate our resources upon finding irrefutable evidence to bring them to justice. In this case, I fear, nothing but absolute proof shall do."

Then Rich turns to Butts, "Thomas said you had kept a lock of hair for me."

Butts nods, and with great care, retrieves a small packet of paper from his robes, "It resides within here." He pauses, then continues, "I promise you that I undertook my examination with all due respect to her, and I shall do all that I can to ensure that her last journey is carried out with dignity."

Rich takes the packet, though his attempt to speak his thanks is a failure, for the words are little more than a silent whisper. Equally carefully, he sets the packet into a pouch at his belt, and fights with himself not to break down. After a few minutes, he raises his head again, "Let us to the investigation room. I want to find this bastard."

The palace is busy with people as they emerge into the upper halls, and Cromwell makes a detour to the Mistress of the Maids, for even the most highly placed Lords make use of the chambermaids to clean their apartments. Having already returned the ledger, he assumes he is to retrieve it - but, instead, he is handed a thinner volume bound with red leather, "This is the ledger for the apartments of the higher nobles." The Mistress advises him, "I have recorded all occasions where maids are required and when they are not - including the royal apartments."

"I do not think I shall need to review those - but I am grateful that they are also listed. Thank you." He retreats with his prize.

Butts is overseeing the removal of Kat's remains to the care of those who shall oversee her burial, so Rich awaits Cromwell alone in the investigation room. His eyes are fixed determinedly upon the papers, reading each line almost obsessively, as he has no wish to think of what is happening to his Kat - or that he cannot be present when she is consigned to the ground.

He looks up as Cromwell enters, "I have it."

Together, they set to work, listing the names of the Dukes and Earls that are resident at Court. Despite their numbers being smaller, the most highly ranked are still not exactly few in number, and examining the records is as slow and laborious an enterprise as it was when Cromwell was researching the movements of the Courtiers.

"What of the Duke of Norfolk?" Rich asks, as they have now dismissed seven names from their list.

Cromwell does not bother with the ledger, "He was in the North over Christmastide." He sighs, "He could not have carried out the killings of Miss Knotte or Miss Culver. Thus, I think it highly unlikely that he was responsible for the others. The method of dispatch is too consistent."

By late afternoon, they have researched the whereabouts of each of the highest nobles at Court, and even the lesser nobles. In each case, however, none have been consistently at court, and each has missed at least one of the deaths.

Cromwell curses, softly; he had hoped that the piece of cloth might have identified their man…

"There is one Duke we have not researched." Rich murmurs, quietly, "Richmond."

"That, I cannot countenance." Cromwell admits, "It cannot be someone royal - how could it be?"

"Why should it not be?" Rich counters, "If we are to seek our killer amongst the highest-born, then we must check them all."

"You spoke in jest, Richard, when you mentioned him."

"Perhaps - but nonetheless, it is better that we demonstrate that it is not he, rather than assume it."

Sighing to himself, Cromwell returns to the ledger and begins to check entries.

"July…then away...back briefly...then away during the risings…back Christmastide and the new year…then away again for the Bigod rising…back again in early summer…" his voice trails away. With few exceptions, his times _at_ court, and _away_ from court, coincide exactly.

"God have mercy…" Rich whispers.

"No - it cannot be him." Cromwell insists, "For if he has been here since the summer began, why is it that he did not act until now?"

Rich flinches, briefly, then makes himself speak, "Do you not recall - when he returned in the summer, the King demanded his constant attention - morn, noon and night. I talked of it with…with Kat…she said then how harsh it must be, and I told her that the King is never alone, so it is something to which Richmond must become accustomed if Queen Jane bears a daughter and he is invested as Prince of Wales…he could not kill, for he was under constant surveillance…it can be no one else."

They stare at each other, horrified; for they have found their killer.

Henry Fitzroy.

* * *

Some considerable time passes before either man can speak. This cannot be possible - surely it cannot? And yet, it seems that it cannot be anything other. No one with the right to wear such fine garments has been present, and absent, at the same intervals to coincide with the killings.

"I do not know what to do." Cromwell admits, eventually. A man of Fitzroy's rank would be all but impossible to accuse - even if they could prove his guilt - which at the present, they cannot. How can they persuade the love-blinded Henry that his adored son is a depraved murderer? For only someone depraved could do what has been done to those poor women…

Rich is silent, but his expression speaks for him. Cromwell knows that they have no choice - they must try. Somehow they must find something that will keep Fitzroy from doing further harm to the women of the Court. But what?

"It answers some questions." He ventures, eventually, "For who else could command the degree of assistance that the killer receives? How else can it be that none see anything untoward? He is wealthy - only the King is wealthier - and he has been taught that nothing he does shall ever lead to censure."

"That is not proof." Rich says, eventually.

"Then we must find it - and find it in such an unimpeachable form that none shall have any claim that we acted against him as we did against Anne Boleyn." He stops. He has no idea how to find such evidence, or even if there is any that can be found. Fitzroy has taken such care to cover his tracks.

In the silence, they hear the distant chimes of the palace clock, "We must away." Cromwell says, quietly, "The council meeting…"

"I cannot…" Rich says, weakly, "Fitzroy shall be there - I cannot…"

Cromwell regards him; he is right - for he cannot keep his emotions from showing upon his face, and there is no guarantee that he shall not act in an untoward fashion that could send them both to the Tower, "I agree, Richard." He says, quietly, "I shall offer your apologies and tell his Majesty that you are unwell - and that you shall need a few days to recover. His fear of infection is far greater than his annoyance at Councillors' absences."

"I shall remain here and consider the evidence that we have in the light of this…outcome."

"I shall return after the meeting." Cromwell advises, "If you find anything, we can discuss it and consider our next move." _And you shall not do anything foolish or rash._

As he returns to the offices to collect his papers, Cromwell wonders what on earth he shall do. He has no more wish to be in the same room as Fitzroy than Rich, and he has not suffered such a loss at the bastard prince's hands. _How could we have been so blind?_ He thinks to himself; they had spent months thinking that the killer was a Courtier. It had never occurred to them, not for a fraction of a second, that their prey was royal - an assumption that has cost four lives additional to that of Miss Hamme's. An assumption that they had made without so much as a thought - and a thoroughly stupid one.

"Forgive my tardiness, Majesty," he says, as he hastens in just as the King is arriving, "Mr Rich was taken ill a few moments ago; I had to supervise his return to his chambers. I think it is nothing more than a minor infection, however, so he should not be absent for more than a few days."

Henry seems monumentally unconcerned about Rich's health or welfare other than in terms of its possible impact upon himself, "Then ensure that he is kept well away. I do not wish to acquire his illness."

"Yes, Majesty." With luck, he can keep that going for at least a week if need be. Any longer, however, and the King shall insist that Rich leave Court.

He ignores the mildly scornful glances being cast between the various Lords at the table, but there is one face that he has not yet sought out to see, and when he does, he feels a cold shiver passing up his spine.

Despite his mastery of control over his emotions, the presence of Fitzroy at the table causes Cromwell considerable difficulty as he forces himself to keep his expression inscrutable. If he is struggling, then he knows that Rich could not have done so.

Looking at the youth with new eyes, he keeps his surveillance as surreptitious as he can. Fitzroy seems calm, well governed and attentive - his presence at meetings has been educational enough to enable him to follow discussions between the Councillors…and yet…and yet it is there - that ever-present air of superiority, almost scorn at those he considered to be lesser beings. He is only half-royal, and yet he sees himself as being second only to the King himself in importance. Unfortunately, Henry has done nothing to discourage him from thinking so.

 _What have you created, Henricus Octavus? A youth who thinks himself free to act as he wills - a boy who thinks himself greater than all, and yet who knows that he is not…_

He shakes himself. Now is not the time for this - not when all are expecting him to report on current matters. Rising to his feet, he begins to read from his notes.

There are few questions, for his speech is not contentious. He has deliberately avoided mentioning the bill that shall legitimise Fitzroy, for he has not yet introduced it to Parliament. Despite the King's promise that they would have a prince by the new year, summer is reaching its height, and he is still a prince only in name. So mercurial is Henry's will, however, that he also seems to have forgotten his promise - and still he does not raise the matter. As far as Cromwell is concerned, now that he is strongly certain that Fitzroy is a dangerous murderer, he would prefer it if the King forgets the matter entirely, and Jane bears a son. If she does, after all, it is quite possible that his Majesty shall abandon Fitzroy as he so easily abandoned his once beloved daughter Mary. A true-born son would edge out a half-blood one - and Henry would almost certainly devote his entire energies to a son fully of the blood. Perhaps Fitzroy shall be consigned back to his estates at Collyweston and left to end his days as Duke of Richmond.

His eyes stray back to the youth again. Like his father, Fitzroy is richly dressed: velvet of the finest quality, quilted and embroidered with gold thread. The only difference is the colour - a spectacular dark blue. It could almost be the twin of the garment from which Kat grasped a fragment.

It is not enough. A similar garment is not equal to the torn one. Without that, they are helpless. No matter what evidence they find - unless it is unimpeachable proof, it is no better than none at all.

When he returns to the investigation room, Rich is still perusing their collections of reports and papers. There is one more document on the table, which he clearly has not touched, for it is as far away from him as he can set it. Cromwell takes it, quietly. He knows why it has been left: it is Butts's post mortem report concerning Kat.

"Anything?" he asks. He is not surprised when Rich shakes his head.

"Then we must start again." He says, firmly, "We must start with the servants, for they see and hear that which we cannot. Even if all that we have at the outset is rumour or innuendo, it is something we can track to it source and investigate more thoroughly."

"And what if there is none?" Rich asks, bitterly.

"I cannot accept that there is nothing. Not in an ants nest such as this. There are too many ears; too many eyes. Servants see more than we recognise - and I have been damnable fool for not tapping into that resource from the very beginning. Perhaps we might have reached this point sooner."

Rich shakes his head, "We would not." He says, "Even had we done so, we would not have considered any rumour about Fitzroy - our assumptions would have prevented it."

Cromwell sighs; for he knows that Rich is right.

"What if we cannot do it?" Rich asks, suddenly, "Even if we prove him guilty, his Majesty might well not believe us - and then we shall die." He seems far less concerned about the prospect of the scaffold than he did when he considered it last October.

"We must do what we can - and trust in God's protection." Cromwell answers, "I cannot stand by and allow this to continue if there is even the faintest hope that we can end it."

"Nor can I." Rich admits, "I could not forgive myself if I did not try."

"We have at least some grace, however, Richard." Cromwell says, "The King told us that Fitzroy is to return to his estates until her Majesty enters confinement. Thus we shall have August and half of September without his malevolent presence hanging over our heads - and the women of the Court shall be safe."

Evening is drawing in, and there is little more to be done. Leaving Cromwell with the one paper that he cannot bring himself to read, Rich departs back to his chambers. He has no more wish to be there than anywhere else; but where else can he go?

John has set out a plate, cup and knife for his supper, and is setting a flagon of claret upon the table. One setting. One.

"I am not hungry tonight, John." He sighs, quietly, "Leave the wine - but I shall not require victuals."

Once alone, he leaves the flagon where it is; it is quite likely that he would not be able to stop himself from draining it - and if he is to be fit to continue in the morning, then he must not be fogged with wine. Instead, he sits beside the fire - still small given the warmth of the last days of July - and carefully retrieves the packet that contains Kat's hair.

"Forgive me, Kat…" he whispers, softly, "If I had known you were in danger - I should have insisted that you leave court."

Carefully, he sets the packet on the table, and stares at it for a while. He has no wish to visit the Chapel, and he has no devotional items in his chambers. Instead, he turns and kneels on the fine wool rug at the fireside and bows his head in prayer. She is safe now - safe in God's care. Her skin shall no longer be pocked - she shall be as beautiful as she was before the pox destroyed her…as beautiful on the outside as she was within…

But she is gone. His precious, wonderful Kat. He shall never see her again, never look into her eyes, hold her close…stroke her hair…never hear her voice again, or her laugh…

He sits back on his heels, trembling with emotion, "I love you, Kat." He says, suddenly, out loud - words he could not say to her face when she lived, "Oh God, I love you - I loved you more than I knew I could… _I love you_ …"

And then he falls onto his side, and cries.


	14. Start at the Bottom and Work Up

**A/N:** My apologies, Blurgle, I completely forgot to thank you for your review! By way of recompense, here's another chapter...

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 _Start at the Bottom and Work Up_

As dawn breaks, a lone candle burns almost to the end. Its light is faint, but the lone occupant of the room seems not to notice the dimness. He ceased to pay attention at some point in the night that he can no longer recall.

His eyes fixed on some point in the distance, Cromwell tries to assimilate all that has happened over the last two days. He has no idea now if he shall be obliged to continue alone, or whether Rich shall be in a condition fit to assist him. He has brooded over the post mortem report from Doctor Butts since his colleague departed last night, and is still no more able to understand than he was yesterday where to progress the investigation in the light of their appalling discovery.

Fitzroy. Henry Fitzroy. Henry Son-of-the-King. It all seems impossible - and yet, it cannot be anyone else, for there is not a single soul of such standing other than he that was present on each occasion that a victim died. The King shall never believe it - they shall need proof - _absolute_ proof. Proof that they cannot hope to find.

He looks up as the door opens. Rich is in the doorway: his clothes crumpled, his hair askew. Cromwell does not need more light than he has to see the red, swollen aftermath of tears; but he understands. He knows what it is to lose a part of one's soul.

Moving slowly, tiredly, Rich joins Cromwell at the table. It is obvious that he has not slept any more than Cromwell has, and his brooding has been far more of a torment.

"When did she die?" he asks, his voice hoarse.

"Doctor Butts could not offer a definitive time, Richard," Cromwell says, quietly, "but he thinks it likely that she died the night before you discovered her."

"Then I am to blame." Rich says.

Cromwell stares at him, bemused at such a statement, "How? How could you be to blame for this?"

"I thought to visit her that evening, for I had not seen her in some days," his voice is low; dull, "but I chose not to, as she had been occupied with the Countess, and I thought she might be tired. I should have…I should have called upon her and…I did not. He did, instead."

"In what way are you expected to be able to divine the future, Richard?" Cromwell asks, "How were you to know of our murderer's designs that night? You acted out of courtesy to Miss Silverton's welfare - it is not thanks to you that another planned differently. There is but one man to blame for this crime. That man is not you."

"Nonetheless, I could have saved her - but I did not."

"Perhaps, if you must see it that way, though I do not." Cromwell advises him, firmly, "If she could not be saved, then we must grasp the gift she has given us, and ensure that there are no more deaths after hers. If we do nothing else, then that is what we must do."

"For Kat." Rich murmurs, his eyes glistening again in the faint light.

"For Kat." Cromwell agrees. Taking the nub of the candle, he re-lights the others, for there is still insufficient light to see, "If you do not feel that you can continue with me in this, Richard, then I am willing to release you from the obligation."

Rich shakes his head, "No. I have to do this. I cannot stop now - for if I did, then I should truly have betrayed her. I could not save her, but I shall not rest until I have obtained justice for her."

Cromwell is relieved he did not use the word _vengeance_.

Reaching for a paper packet, he extracts the fragment of velvet. To his uneducated eye, the once-fine nap is ruined, but the gold thread is still shining amidst the flattened fibres. It is all they have - and that is, to be frank, extremely tenuous. None but one of the highest rank would wear a garment made from this cloth; indeed, did he not see Fitzroy in a blue doublet that could be the twin of one from which this could have come? Even so - it is still not enough: the bastard prince could claim it to have been upon the back of a member of his retinue, wearing it as a disguise. What if it is?

"We must act to identify the cloth." He says, turning the offending item over in his hands, "The laundresses shall be about at this hour, so I think our first step is to question them."

Rich does not speak, but instead gathers paper and quill, pours a small quantity of ink from the bottle into the inkhorn and reaches for the board he has been using to support the papers as he writes. For a moment, Cromwell watches him, then reaches out and rests a hand upon his shoulder, "I cannot begin to know how hard this is for you, Richard." He says, quietly.

"I have work to do." Rich says, "I shall do it. I can mourn later: when that bastard is captured and justice is done."

Cromwell sighs inwardly. It is not wise for Rich to pin all his hopes upon a successful outcome - for there is no telling where the road might lead them now. But then, perhaps it no longer matters to him. If the King condemns them, then he shall be reunited with Kat in death.

As he turns to lead Rich from their investigation room, his eyes narrow, viciously; if the King condemns them, and they must die, then he shall be damned if he does not take Fitzroy with them.

The air in the laundry is as humid as the last time he was here; though the heat is less in the early morning. As with all servants, the Laundresses are about their work even in the small hours - for the demands of the Palace for clean linens and garments is insatiable.

This time, however, the Laundry is guarded by a fierce dragon of a woman - a Mistress Hall - who eyes them with astonishing hostility. The Laundry is, to her, a woman's domain, and she does not like the disruptive presence of men. Unlike those of higher station, she is not remotely intimidated by either Cromwell's reputation or his chain of office; a situation that, paradoxically, he finds somewhat refreshing.

"I believe Mistress Straker has already told you, my Lord," she says, her voice as wizened as her elderly face, "we have seen no blood on cloths other than those used by the ladies of the court during their courses. Those who engage in violent activities are wise enough to seek their cleaning services elsewhere."

"That is not why am here, Mistress Hall," Cromwell says, placatingly, "I have come into possession of a fragment of cloth, and I wish to seek the advice of the laundresses as to whether they have come across the garment from which it came."

"They are busy. Give the cloth to me."

"That I cannot do, Madam." He says, more stiffly, "The cloth is of vital importance to an investigation with which I am currently engaged."

"I am not interested in the sordid activities of those who claim to be of better blood. Give me the cloth."

"No."

Until that moment, Rich had been paying very little attention to the conversation, wrapped up in his sorrow; but the bluntness of Cromwell's response pulls him from his reverie, and he stares, astonished, as the fierce guardian of the Laundry and the Lord Privy Seal begin to argue in the most extraordinarily ill mannered terms. Their language is coarse, and their words almost strange at times, for Cromwell has abandoned his Courtly veneer, and is now squabbling with the woman in the _argot_ of those of lesser birth - using speech that would not normally be heard within the walls of the Palace. He has not forgotten his origins, and he is not ashamed of them - for how else could he still speak the rougher dialect of the lower classes of Putney?

He has long since lost track of what is being said, for such language is utterly unfamiliar to a man born in far better circumstances, but Mistress Hall suddenly throws back her head and laughs at something that sounds to be a savage insult; the noise emerging in a rather foul cackle, "God above, you are a strange one, my Lord! Go, speak to the girls if you must - but if they know nothing, I shall chide you for wasting their time!"

The young women of the laundry would not normally see one so elevated in their midst, and Rich has no doubt that they would be most intimidated by the sight of the Lord Privy Seal. To his surprise, however, they show no such concerns, and seem quite content to answer his questions. Then he understands: They saw his quarrel with Mistress Hall, and the manner in which he conducted it. In that single act, Cromwell has disarmed them all - for they see him as one of their own, regardless of his fine clothes and ornaments. Despite his melancholy, he cannot help but be impressed at Cromwell's cleverness.

The first few girls they ask look at the fragment dutifully, and shake their heads. While they are required to clean garments of such grandeur, they have not seen a cloth of that nature.

Then, at last, they have some luck; for one girl does recall it, "Yes, my Lord. I remember it - though I saw it back at Christmastide - it ain't been back 'ere since."

"Christmastide?" Cromwell prompts, as Rich hastily scribbles.

"Yes, my Lord. It had some 'orrible greasy sauce slopped down it. It were a doublet. We was told to get the stain out - no matter what it took. Get it out - that was what we was told."

"Whose was it?"

"They didn't say - but it were bound to be someone royal, weren't it? No one else wears a doublet like that, does they?"

"Do you know what sort of velvet this is?"

She shakes her head, "I knows someone who would, my Lord," she answers, "Sally Shapsley - one of the seamstresses. She knows everything there is to know about cloth - if she can't tell you about it, no one can't."

Cromwell ignores the multitude of negatives in the final statement, "Where can I find her?"

The attics occupied by the seamstresses are badly appointed, and rather poorly lit. How they can work, Cromwell cannot begin to imagine, and he makes a mental note to speak to the Household department about relocating them to workrooms with more light.

Sally Shapsley is sitting at one of the tables closest to the few dormer windows, indicating superior status amongst those with little status to claim. Her clothing is well sewn, which is no surprise, though the fabric is simple broadcloth in a dull, earthy beige. Unlike the laundresses, who witnessed Cromwell's slightly ridiculous spat with Mistress Hall, she views him with that same sense of terror that all underlings have for the man who brought down a Queen.

"Forgive our intrusion, Miss Shapsley," he is, once more, the very soul of courtesy, "I was speaking to one of the laundresses who advised me that you could be a great help to us in identifying a fragment of cloth that has come into our possession."

Her eyes nervous, she nods, "I can try, my Lord."

As she takes the fragment, her expression changes; as her expertise comes to the fore and pushes the shyness away, "It is - _was_ \- a very fine cloth, my Lord," she says, speculatively, "Despite the condition of the nap, I think it to be pile-on-pile silk of the highest quality. Most such velvets are made by the Venetians, and I think this to be so. It would be very, very expensive to buy in any quantity, and certainly in such a shade as this, for I think it has faded a little in the washing. It would have been rather more vivid when it was made."

"Who do you think would be most likely to have obtained it?" Cromwell asks, still magnificently polite.

"Only someone of means, my Lord. Most would not be permitted to wear a garment made of this cloth, for its quality and luxury is very much meant only for those at the highest state."

"Such as?" he prompts, patiently.

"No less than a Duke - and possibly higher." She pauses, and frowns, "I think, my Lord, that it would be a great surprise to me if the garment from which this came had not been made for, and worn, by someone royal."

* * *

"We have spent half a morning questioning a bundle of women to discern only what we already knew." Rich says, bitterly, "We knew that the wearer was royal - it could not have been any other."

"Perhaps," Cromwell says, mildly, "But nonetheless, confirmation by one who has true knowledge of the matter can only aid us, can it not?"

"In what? Telling us that which we had worked out for ourselves?"

"Return to the investigation room, Richard. Transcribe your notes and set them upon the wall. We have no choice but to move in the smallest of steps - for we must take every care to build our case against our suspect. If we do not, then we shall fail in our aim, and thus serve, and save, no one."

Rich sighs, and nods. Watching him turn and depart, Cromwell sighs, too. If only it could be as easy to prove Fitzroy's guilt as his colleague wants it to be. They shall have only one chance to end this - for if they accuse, and fail, who shall stop the dread 'prince' then? He shall see himself as truly invincible if those who know of his guilt are driven to the block. They cannot rest at the point where jurors could consider their souls safe from doubt in pronouncing guilt - they must go beyond that: to absolute, _irrefutable_ proof. And even that may not be enough.

Besides, he does not want Rich with him - not when he intends to question others about lost jewels.

If there is one good thing - small though it is - about Kathryn having fallen into the clutches of Fitzroy, it is that the loss of a jewel has stood out, and is something that might aid them. If he can find it, and retrieve it, then he shall do so - but if he cannot, then he must not let the opportunity that it affords him to pass him by. Perhaps the theft was not unique? If so, then it may be that Fitzroy has them, and, if he does - and can be _shown_ to have them, then what answer can he give for their presence in his possession?

"Forgive me, Miss Wright," he says, as she answers his summons at the door of the Countess of Derby's apartments, "I was wondering if you could assist me with a further question that I have in relation to Miss Hamme."

She nods, though fortunately she is now past the bursting-into-tears-at-the-mention-of-a-name stage.

"Are you aware if any of her possessions were missing when they were gathered together?"

She sighs, briefly, "I do not think so. I assisted with the matter, but then…" she stops, "No…no, forgive me my Lord, I think I do recall. There was one item we could not locate."

"Could you describe it?" He has no ink or quill, but he does have a stick of charcoal, which will have to do.

"It was a small jewel - a rather pretty diamond drop pendant set in silver-gilt filigree. I think it had been left to Anne by her mother, so we were all very sad when we could not find it."

Cromwell scribbles hastily, "Was that all that could not be found?"

"Other than some linens, which we eventually traced to the laundry, yes." She pauses, "You have not found the one who killed her, then?"

"Alas, not as yet, Miss Wright - but we have made some progress, and I have hopes that we might. But I must ask you to keep that to yourself, for we do not wish to alert the killer that we have uncovered their identity."

She nods, "I hope you find him, my Lord. For Anne."

"I shall endeavour to do so, Miss Wright. Thank you for your aid."

Miss Seaton, Louise Knotte's former Chambermaid, is not as fearful of him this time about; she recalls how kind he was to her, "I do recall, when we were clearing her possessions - there was one thing missing. I remember her showing it to me, for it was a gift from one of her previous men, and it was the most valuable thing she had."

"What was it?"

"It was a long gold pin that she used to secure her hood to her coif, my Lord. It had a rather fine decoration at the top, with some loops and chains, and an emerald at the top. She had three of them - and one was gone. I thought she must have lost it."

Nodding, he makes a note, _Louise Knotte - decorated gold pin with emerald setting._

Unlike Emma Wright, she does not offer a query over the progress of the investigation. She is, after all, a servant; and thus not permitted to be so forward. Grateful to her for her assistance, however, Cromwell bows to her as though she were one of the fine ladies of the court, "My thanks to you Miss Seaton. It is my hope that your aid shall bring us to a successful conclusion."

Lady Mary Scrope, on the other hand, is much more determined to know what is happening, "Surely you have made _some_ progress, my Lord?"

"I am not at liberty to say, my Lady. Suffice to say that we are continuing our enquiries and are in hopes of a successful conclusion to this matter. Could you advise me if anything belonging to Miss Culver was found to be missing?"

"I am not aware of anything," she says, though Cromwell notices a swift movement of her eyes towards a small coffer that sits upon a nearby dresser, and a spreading redness on the back of her neck.

"Have you anything remaining that was in her possession?" He asks, a little pointedly. She reddens even more.

"Nothing, my Lord."

"Are you _quite_ sure, my Lady?" His eyes narrow - one of his most effective tactics.

She turns, as though remembering the coffer, "Oh, yes - forgive me. I am keeping this coffer of her jewels safe - for I intend to return it to the family myself. I do not trust a courier with such items." She is speaking too quickly, but Cromwell does not care. He is interested only in whether the killer took a jewel - not petty pilfering by so-called Gentlefolk.

Still babbling about the duplicity of messengers, she brings the coffer to him, and begins to delve into it. Then she stops, "There is something missing, my Lord." She says.

"And what is it?"

"A diamond fur-clasp. It was gold - set with six fine-cut diamonds."

"Are you certain?" he asks, his eyes fixed upon her in a most unnerving manner.

"Yes, my Lord," she quavers, fearfully, "I give you my word."

 _Given that you intended to keep those jewels for yourself, my Lady, I suspect your word is worth less than a pile of shit._ He thinks, but her wide, frightened eyes speak more truthfully than her words, and he makes a quick note: _Sarah Culver, Gold fur clasp with six cut diamonds set thereon_.

His eyes hard, he nods, politely, and takes his leave.

The collection of coffers is small, and the contents a sad statement of a life lived on the edge of poverty and reliant upon the gifts of others to keep all together. Elizabeth Milton has no friends to dispatch her possessions back to her family, and thus they seem destined to remain stored in a closet until their provenance is forgotten. At which point they shall likely be thrown on a bonfire.

Sighing to himself, Cromwell burrows into each coffer, until he discovers a small jewel box. With no inventory, he has no idea what might be missing, so his exploration of the contents of the box is slow and careful. It does not take long, however, to uncover a single pearl cluster loop earring that has no partner. As he cannot say with certainty that the missing jewel was not simply lost, his note this time is more speculative, _Elizabeth Milton - pearl cluster earring?_

He does not need to check what was taken from Kat.

"Why are you doing this?" he mutters to himself, "Damn you - why take something so small from them? Are you collecting items? For what purpose? Are they reminders of your act? God, why steal when you have so much already?"

And he realises then that he is no longer speculating - in his mind, he knows that his quarry is the son of the King.

* * *

Rich has long since finished transcribing his notes by the time Cromwell returns, and they are pinned to the wall. Perusing them, Cromwell opts not to make mention of the obvious blots on some of them that can only be the result of tears falling onto the ink. For a moment, he feels his own grief rising near to the surface, and forces it back down. How can he claim to feel the pain that Rich feels now? Liz has been gone nearly ten years; Kat a mere three days. There is no comparison; and yet, at the same time, perhaps there is.

"Have you uncovered anything else?" Rich asks, quietly.

"In some respects, no. But in others, yes." Cromwell says, still looking at the papers on the wall, "I spoke to those who were close to the previous victims. It seems that Kat was not the only one from whom something valuable was taken."

The chair behind him screeches back as Rich rises and comes round the table to join him, "He took from others?"

Cromwell nods, and sits on the table, "Something small from each one. I shall add them to the papers for each victim."

"You shall not. Your writing is offensive."

"Then I shall not." He hands over the charcoal scribbles, and watches as Rich carefully, neatly, transfers the information to each paper.

"Why has he done this?" Rich asks, as he pins the last of the papers back to the wall.

"That, I cannot begin to imagine." Cromwell admits, "To have carried out such depraved acts would, to me, demand that the perpetrator force such horrors from his mind at the first opportunity - and yet, it would appear that our killer prefers instead to revel in what he has done." He pauses, and closes his eyes, "Forgive me."

"Is he in league with the devil?" Rich chooses to ignore the import of the statement, "Or perhaps possessed by one?"

"I cannot help but wonder. I have never seen any such behaviour as this - it defies any understanding that I have of humanity. Perhaps, in the mingling of royal and common blood, some aberration has developed within his mind. Thank God he is leaving Court tomorrow."

"So you think it to be beyond doubt that the killer is Fitzroy?"

Cromwell sighs, "Yes, Richard. I do."


	15. Ugly Rumours

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 _Ugly Rumours_

The night has been unpleasant; thick with dark dreams and frequent wakings in equal darkness. For the first time in years, he dreams of Liz - always ahead of him, always out of reach - as though she is waiting for him, and, if he were to try just a little harder, he could stretch out and take her hand. But always she seems to pull away, and as she departs from him, he hears the sound of laughter, the voices of two little girls…

Dawn's arrival feels almost unwelcome, for Cromwell's head is doped with tiredness, and he wishes he could spend at least some more time trying to seek the deep sleep that has eluded him since Kat died. His only consolation is that Fitzroy is to leave Court again - if only for a month and a half - thus granting him some peace, and safety to the lower-ranked women in the Palace.

He does not break his fast, for victuals have no appeal to him. Instead, he returns to the investigation room, and resumes his almost obsessive perusal of the papers. Why does Fitzroy only seem intent upon the lower ranked Ladies? Those of gentler birth are hardly better behaved at times; he is well aware that Viscount Beauchamp's wife is still visiting Francis Bryan - and the maids are not exactly free of taint. Perhaps the higher-born women are protected by the auras of their highly placed husbands, while the maids are of too little worth. Fitzroy is, after all, half-royal.

Cromwell is not entirely sure when it was that he travelled from possibility, to probability, to certainty. Despite the care that he should be taking to be objective, the only firm evidence he has speaks so strongly that he cannot place any culpability upon any other. And he has Kat Silverton to thank for that - her courage in her last moments granting them the breakthrough that they needed; but not in the manner that either of them would have wanted.

He sighs again as he reads the paper that Rich prepared for their evidence yesterday. The blots where the tears fell have dried, a permanent reminder of his grief. Now that he is reading it, he notes that the writing is not as neat - for Rich's hand must have been shaking as he wrote. Only the last part, the descriptions of the jewels that Fitzroy took, bears that same tidiness as the other papers.

The door opens, and he looks up to see Rich. He is in clean clothes, and his hair has been combed; but other than that he looks little better. He is pale, and there are shadows under his eyes - though there is no sign that he has shed tears again.

"His retinue is gathering to go." Rich reports, his voice still much quieter than usual, "But there seems to have been some discord - one of his Ushers has been dismissed and is staying at Placentia." There is no mistaking the thought behind his words - it is written upon his face.

Cromwell's eyes narrow in an unnervingly predatory fashion, "Then we shall seek him out. If he is disgruntled at his removal from the retinue, he may be willing to divulge information that would otherwise be out of our reach."

"That is my hope."

The Usher concerned proves to be somewhat elusive, and they are obliged to ask several of the Ushers of other households for information as to his whereabouts.

"You mean William Gresham?" One says, his expression almost dismissive, "Frankly, my Lord, it is no surprise to me. My only astonishment is that it took so long for him to be dropped. He is a truly objectionable individual even at the best of times - and his behaviour has earned him no friends."

"Where might we find him?" Cromwell asks, keeping his manner one of polite enquiry.

"At this point, it would be difficult to say, my Lord." The youth admits, "The Prince's Ushers had their own dormitory, from which he has been obliged to remove himself - and until he has secured an alternative appointment, he shall have nowhere to rest his head. I suspect he is currently with the Gentleman of the Chamber, attempting to seek another retinue that might accept him."

"I take it that he shall find this something of a fruitless enterprise?"

"Most assuredly - for who would want a man dismissed from the retinue of the Duke of Richmond?"

Cromwell thanks him for his information, that Rich has noted down carefully. A disgruntled ex-employee is one thing - but one that cannot secure another appointment could well be an ideal starting point to seek something - even bitterness-induced innuendo is better at this juncture than a single fragment of battered velvet.

Further enquiries serve merely to reinforce the young Usher's assessment. William Gresham has earned himself a poor reputation during his time with the Duke of Richmond; and, as a consequence, there is suddenly a dearth of alternative positions for him occupy. More importantly, however, his disgruntlement is starting to become more evident; by the midday meal - which neither Cromwell nor Rich attend - there are rumours that he is making wild claims of information that he holds about the man he is now calling the 'bastard prince', as though this might make some difference to his situation.

It does - but not in the manner that he intends.

He is sitting in one of the alcoves in a dormitory, holding court to a small number of lesser servants who are hanging on to his every word when they find him, "…and if I spoke of his vices, then even his father would wish to…"

"Wish to what, Mr Gresham?" Cromwell interrupts, his expression intent; deadly, "Perhaps you and I should have a talk. This way, please."

His red, angry complexion suddenly drained to the colour of whey, Gresham nods, rises, and follows.

* * *

Seating himself in a room near to the Placentia Waiting Chamber, Rich sets out his papers and watches, intently, as Cromwell brusquely pushes William Gresham into a chair. While he has always been quite fascinated at the Lord Privy Seal's ability to intimidate, it is only when he sees him do so - in close quarters such as these - that he appreciates the effect that Cromwell has on those against whom he unleashes that ability.

"I must warn you," Cromwell's voice is low and threatening, "not to repeat anything that is discussed in this room. If I find that you have done so, matters shall become…unpleasant." He does not offer any further detail. He does not need to - the imagination of the young man in the chair is doing that for him - interpreting all from the narrowness of his eyes and the hardness of his stare.

"It does not do to speak ill of those close to the throne, Mr Gresham." Cromwell begins, his voice dangerously calm and benign, "Particularly when it is so easy to be overheard. I am an inquisitive man; and I do not wish to be kept in the dark about matters of importance to the safety and wellbeing of his Majesty the King. Tell me: of what vices were you intending to speak?"

"I…I, nothing my Lord - I swear to you…I was being foolish…speaking wild words…"

Cromwell smiles; a fearsome, shark-like smile that speaks only of a predatory instinct, "I beg you, Mr Gresham, do not think that I am a fool, and do not lie to me. I object in particular to being lied to. Believe me; you are but one step from my leaving this room and sending a Steward to summon the Palace Constable to arrest you for slanderous talk. After which, that same Steward shall repair to the Privy Stairs to arrange a barge to transport you to the Tower."

Rich stares, his pen frozen in his hand, _Jesus - he is terrifying…God forbid that I ever find myself in that youth's place_.

Gresham stares at Cromwell, his eyes wide and filling with tears, "My Lord!" he cries, fearfully, "I beg you - do not send me there! I have committed no crime - I swear it!"

"And why do you think that innocence shall protect you?" Cromwell leans in close, his eyes narrowed even further. He knows that he is bullying this idiotic youth - but there are lives at stake, and he has no time to care for the sensibilities of an obnoxious servant caught in a trap of his own making, "I serve the King - and the Law is that of the King. I do what I must to achieve that which the King desires, and thus he trusts in me absolutely. I have the authority, and the will, to send you not only to the Tower, but also to the rack if I must. I am also told that 'Little Ease' is most uncomfortable."

"I shall speak!" Gresham blubbers, piteously, "I shall tell all that I know, my Lord - I beg you, do not send me to the Tower!"

"That depends," Cromwell says, ominously, "upon the value of what you tell me. I demand the truth from you - absolutely and utterly. If I find that you have lied, even if only to tell me what you think I wish to hear, then I shall show you no mercy. Do you understand? Truth - and only the truth. Tell me exactly what you claim to know. _Exactly_." His eyes dreadful, he seats himself, sits back, folds his arms and keeps his gaze fixed entirely on the quivering Usher.

"I have been with the Duke of Richmond's retinue for three years, my Lord." Gresham begins, his voice shaking, "I was not privy to all that he did; but I know of a number of strange practices - of a religious nature."

"Go on."

"Like most of his rank, he maintains a private devotional area in his rooms - a cross and candles, and a prie-dieu; but he also has a number of devices in order to undertake mortification of the flesh - most notably a wooden lattice upon which he kneels as he speaks the _Confiteor_ repeatedly. I have seen him in this practice only the once - and then only by chance; for we are kept from him by his closest retainers when he does so, but we all know of it."

Cromwell frowns - such actions are of Popish origin in his mind, and he has no involvement with such behaviour; though he recalls that More was known on occasions to wear a hair shirt, as was the late Queen Katherine. Finding such behaviour rather bizarre, and mildly offensive, he has no such items in his possession.

"Do you know why he does this?" He asks.

"I do not, my Lord." Gresham says, nervously, "We are told not to enquire. One youth who did was knocked down - his nose was broken - and all were reminded that, should they ask again, they would find themselves equally punished. There were, however, rumours."

"Rumours?" Cromwell prompts.

"Yes, my Lord. Stories of his childhood. It is said that he was bullied badly as a child until his tutor discovered and ended it, and that his bastardy was thrown in his face in his youth by those born within wedlock. But the rest of the time, he was given endless honours by the King - but not made legitimate. We are not to talk of his bloodline - for those who do are punished with severe violence. I heard a story of one servant being whipped to death with a leather strap while he was hung by his wrists from the ceiling and forced to recite the _Confiteor_ over and over again. When he fainted, they revived him with cold water so that they could continue - and they kept on until there was no breath left in his body." He looks fearful, "But that was a rumour, and I did not attach any credence to it, for it was told to all the young men when first they entered service so I think it is naught but a story to scare them. I saw nothing of that nature while in his service."

"Is this all that you have?" Cromwell asks, his tone dismissive, "What scandal is there in this? That his Grace the Duke is a religious fanatic? Lord above, even the Lady Mary has been found with a hair shirt before now! In what way do you think his Majesty would act against his son for this?"

"There is more, my Lord!" Gresham pleads, rather desperately, "I know that he keeps something - something so secret that there _must_ be something of illicit origin within it!"

His expression cold, Cromwell leans forward, "Then speak."

* * *

Gresham is shaking violently, and his terror is such that, from where he sits with his paper and quill, Rich almost sniffs the air for evidence that the youth has pissed himself. Cromwell is right - this is not enough. This is nothing close to enough.

"His Grace's activities are, I think, related to a coffer that he keeps in his quarters, my Lord." Gresham continues, fretfully, "I know not what it contains - but…but, there was one day when I was in his bedchamber hanging his suits in the closet after our removal to Collyweston from Whitehall a year or so back. I heard him approaching the chamber, so I hid - for though we must enter the bedchamber as part of our duties, he forbids us to do so, and punishes those he finds there with severity. The coffer had not been with his other possessions; and he guarded it with great care, for it was held closed with a mechanical padlock that requires no key."

"Then it contains something valuable." Cromwell scoffs, "What scandal would be attached to that?"

"My Lord," Gresham continues, frantically, "I know not what it contains, I admit it, but if it is something merely valuable, why is it never far from his side when he undertakes his mortification of the flesh? If it is merely a valuable jewel, what would drive him to seek such violent atonement? As I hid, he set it down beside the table where his Cross and candles lie, drew out the lattice and began to recite the Confiteor - I was there for nearly two hours, for I did not dare to move. Surely there is nothing other than a sinful item that would require such self-punishment?"

"How do you know that it is never far from his side, if you have seen it but the once?"

"I have heard rumours - for others have been caught as I have, and have been obliged to hide. One told of his examining the contents of the coffer - though he could not see what it was, for he was unsighted. He said…he said that, the Duke became greatly…excited…and…and…" he stops, reddening.

"Excited?" Cromwell prompts.

"As one does when one is overly enamoured, my Lord?" Gresham says, struggling to find words that are not too offensive.

"Aroused, then." Cromwell snaps, annoyed at such beating about the proverbial bush.

"Yes, my Lord - and he then proceeded to, well…"

"Deal with the matter." Cromwell finishes, equally delicately.

"After which, he proceeded to lock the coffer, set it alongside the table with the cross, and fetch out the lattice. That, I am told, the servant saw."

"Could it be considered that his Grace is inclined to undertake such activities frequently?"

"That I cannot say, my Lord - though he practices his mortification as many as two or even three times a week. Sometimes more - though there is no regular pattern to it."

Cromwell sighs, "Is that all that you have to tell me?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Then go. Let this be a lesson to you not to pry, or to make threats to spread rumours again. If I find that you have spoken of this to anyone - _anyone_ \- then know that I shall have you dragged to the Tower and racked until the strings in your joints are snapped. Do you understand me? His Grace the Duke of Richmond is not to be spoken of so, by you, or by any. Ever again."

The youth nods, tearfully, and flees.

* * *

Cromwell turns to Rich, who shakes his head, "I think it best that I transcribe it immediately - before your recollection of what was said becomes clouded."

"Do you not have work to do?"

"That can wait."

Bemused, Cromwell follows his colleague back to the investigation room. They have gained some insight into Fitzroy's habits, yes, but in what way does any of this count as evidence? It is mere speculation - and some of it quite prurient. He finds himself hoping that Rich has not put too much investment into Gresham's interview. It might lead them nowhere - and what then?

"How long shall you need?" he asks, as Rich sets his notes down and refills the inkhorn.

"An hour, if that."

"I shall see if anything has come in for your attention that cannot wait. My signature is as valid as yours."

Rich looks up, his quill poised over the inkhorn, "Thank you, Thomas."

The offices are as busy as ever, and the degree of work that has built up during their questioning causes Cromwell to sag slightly. At least he shall be kept occupied for the hour that Rich is busy; and it seems that things have not got too far ahead in terms of the monies coming in from the Religious Houses, for there are no papers present that cannot be left for the Chancellor's attention.

A note on his desk advises that the King has decided to hunt this afternoon, and the Privy Council are therefore dismissed for the day. A good thing, given that he had forgotten all about it, so keen has he been upon securing evidence. Though, with Fitzroy on his way back to Lincolnshire, Rich shall be able to 'recover' from his 'illness' and return to the Council Table.

"Have there been any messages?" he asks Wriothesley, who is busy over his own papers.

"None, my Lord - the King has decided to see no one since his son left; hence, I think, his decision to hunt instead of meet his Councillors."

Cromwell nods, taking care to hide the mild shudder he feels at the thought of the King's devotion to Fitzroy. How on earth can he possibly combat that? God help him - even absolute proof is likely not to be sufficient. As he seats himself at his desk, he decides that, when the time comes to accuse, he shall do so independently. It is likely to end in arrest and death - and he does not have a growing family that would be left adrift by an Act of Attainder. Gregory is a man now, and married; he would find a way to survive…

Forcing the thought from his head, Cromwell busies himself with the backlog of work until the clock strikes the quarter hour that marks an hour since he left Rich transcribing. Time to go back, then.

Rich looks up as he enters, "I was about to send a steward. All is done." He hands over a set of papers for Cromwell to read.

As always, the notes are _verbatim_ and follow the conversation with accuracy. The entire investigation would have been considerably harder to conduct without such accurate records, and he is grateful that he has Rich to assist him, despite his no longer being Solicitor General. Whorwood would have likely been hopeless in comparison - a fine lawyer, yes; but far less quick minded, and not even half as well organised.

"What impression did you gain from Mr Gresham's words?" he asks.

"He was most certainly not lying, Thomas - he was far too frightened to do such a thing - but still, how much credence we can give to his words is speculative. Much of that which he describes is hearsay from others, and usually at least third hand if not more removed. Apart from this rather strange desire to over-manage his Grace's need for atonement."

"Atonement." Cromwell agrees, his tone musing.

"Atonement for what?" Rich asks, his eyebrow raised. He is seeking an opinion, not an answer.

"The murders." Cromwell says, at once, then pauses, "Though it would seem strange to me that he would need to undertake such behaviour so frequently. He does not do it every day, if Gresham is to be believed; but he does it too frequently to be inspired solely by his killings of the women at Court. There must be another reason."

"What - playing with himself over the contents of his coffer?" Rich asks, crudely.

"Unless it is the contents of the coffer that inspires his need to atone."

"Perhaps, for he can hardly be killing two or three people a week, can he?"

Cromwell pauses.

"What?"

"Something I recall from a year back." He says, quietly, "It was the day after Anne was executed - a woman's body was deposited upon the Privy Stairs by the outgoing tide. We could not identify the corpse, but significant violence was done upon her."

"In what way would that have any bearing on this?"

"I cannot say…it is, however, something that I recall most strongly, though she died from strangulation, not blood-loss. We did find evidence of violence upon her - for she had been ravished violently and repeatedly, as far as Doctor Butts could determine."

"But how does that make any difference?" Rich asks again.

"Perhaps none at all - but she was being carried downstream - and, if I recall, Fitzroy was housed in a fine manor a few miles upstream from Whitehall at the time." He sighs, and curses, "Supposition is not truth. It is coincidental, perhaps, but nonetheless there is no evidence. Her remains were turned over to the City Authorities. Doubtless she received a pauper's burial. God alone knows where she lies now - for we could not identify her."

"Then we have no alternative but to discount her."

"We do - but perhaps there are more murders than those of which we are aware."

"He could hardly act so in the Palace."

"But what of Collyweston?" Cromwell counters.

"Christ have mercy…"

Cromwell shakes his head, "It is not enough. We are now speculating far too extensively - even though I am satisfied from what I have that we have our man; there is no suggestion that he has harmed any other, and what we have learned so far does not constitute the degree of evidence that we need. We do not know what lies in the Coffer, do we?"

"Salacious poetry? Drawings?" Rich asks.

"If that is the case, it shows merely that he is at least aware of that which he should be doing to create a child - but not that he is taking lives."

"In which case," Rich sighs, "we have done little more than demonstrate that he has a degree of religious fanaticism."

Cromwell nods. Fanaticism of a rather worrying degree, yes. But still not enough to prove him a murderer.


	16. A Devise for the Succession

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 _A Devise for the Succession_

In the week that has passed since Fitzroy left, Cromwell has made no progress in his investigation. The only rumours he could secure were from Gresham - who has now left court. With Fitzroy also absent from Court, so is his retinue, so there is no one else to question.

He looks across the offices to where Rich is working diligently. It is all now that he seems to do - for he is never present anywhere that he does not have to be. He is at his desk in the morning, attends Privy Council meetings, and then retires to his chambers. He speaks only when he must, and is never present in the Hall for meals. Cromwell is aware that Kat was buried in her family's tomb in the West Country a few days ago - a funeral at which her lover could not be present - and the lack of progress in their investigation into her death is eating away at him.

If only they could find more information; more evidence. That it can only be Fitzroy does not matter - all that it means is that they know there shall be no more deaths until he returns for Queen Jane's confinement - Rich cannot lay his beloved Kat's soul to rest by obtaining the justice she deserves. Even in the few days since they last worked on the investigation, he can see that Rich has lost some weight - he is not eating, then. Instead, he still looks pale, and a little drawn. When did he last have a night's uninterrupted rest? Cromwell knows it cannot continue, and that he must act.

With the day drawing to a close, he approaches his silent colleague, who is writing carefully and precisely - even more so than usual, as though spinning out the work to delay the inevitable moment that he must go back to his rooms, knowing that the woman he loves is not there to greet him, and never shall be again.

"I am famished, Mr Rich. If it is not too much trouble, I should appreciate it if you could join me to sup tonight."

Rich raises his head and looks up. As always, his face displays all that he thinks, and Cromwell is struck by his expression of sheer pain, "I should prefer it if I could sup alone, my Lord."

"I think not." Cromwell says, his voice lower, quieter, "If you do, I suspect you shall not sup at all. I have not seen you depart to dine at any time this week - have you eaten anything?"

"Enough to keep from fainting. If I attempt more, then my throat constricts and I cannot swallow." He says, almost rebellious in his confession.

"Join me. Even if you cannot face victuals, it is not good to be alone at such a time. I know that to be so from my own bereavements."

Rich transfers his attention to his papers again, but there is the briefest, smallest of nods. Satisfied, Cromwell returns to his desk to wait for his colleague to complete the work he is doing. Sure enough, once he has signed off the last document, he sets his papers into a coffer, locks it, and approaches Cromwell's desk.

Their meal is taken silently, and - as he admitted - Rich does little more than pick at the food set out before them, swallowing perhaps two or three mouthfuls.

"Was this what it was like for you?" He asks, eventually.

Setting his knife down, Cromwell regards him for a moment before replying, "Yes. It was."

"I would give everything I have - _everything_ \- if I could just see her once more. To tell her…tell her…what I did not…" his head is bowed, and a small droplet falls from his face to the tablecloth. Without a word, Cromwell reaches out and rests a hand upon his shoulder. There is nothing that he can say - but he knows. He knows what his colleague - no, _friend_ \- is suffering, for he has suffered that pain, too.

"I do not think I can continue, Thomas." Rich whispers, painfully, "I thought that I could - for her - but I cannot."

"I would not press you to do so, Richard." Cromwell says, quietly, "And I release you from any obligation to this enterprise. Should you change your mind, however, I shall welcome your assistance - but I do not demand it."

"Let me think on it. I shall give you my decision on the morrow. Forgive me, but I think I shall retire." He rises from the table, bows briefly, and departs.

Cromwell watches the door close with misted eyes. "Damn you, Fitzroy." He hisses, bitterly, "Damn you to hell. I swear I shall bring you down for what you have done to them. And to him. I _swear_ it. Even if I have to fall with you - I shall do it."

* * *

Another night during which sleep has eluded him; or, if he has slept, he has slept but little. His eyes gritty, Cromwell sits yet again in their investigation room, his gaze fixed upon the papers that they have accumulated.

It is Fitzroy. He _knows_ that it is Fitzroy, for it could not be any other - unless it is someone of his retinue; but why steal one of the Duke's doublets in order to commit the crimes? No. He is convinced it is the bastard prince. Fitzroy has never, at any time, shown the strength or wherewithal to protect anyone who might damage his personal standing at Court - so why would he do so? Despite his almost limitless protection from a Father who sees no wrong in anything that he does, could he truly escape censure for failing to keep control of his retinue?

Without evidence, however, he cannot proceed; and the prospects for obtaining any of sufficient use seem slim at best. No wonder Rich is losing hope. In some ways, Cromwell wonders if Rich shall even be able to remain at Court if they cannot bring Fitzroy to justice - at present, he cannot even stand to be in the same room.

He pauses. Even if he did have such evidence - and more: irrefutable proof that cannot be denied - he cannot be certain that his Majesty shall even accept it. He almost worships the very ground upon which Fitzroy steps; for did he not blame the youth's retinue for his failure to keep his promise to raise a force to join Norfolk in the North? Had he wished to go, then who could have prevented him? If Henry cannot accept that his son is capable of any wrongdoing, then not only might such an accusation be the last thing he does at Court - it might even be the last thing he does at all. Even an accusation based upon absolute proof that his Majesty cannot deny shall likely send him to the block. Perhaps Rich was right to withdraw from the investigation.

He sighs, for he knows that the stakes are now considerably higher. Not only must he seek justice for those who have died; but he must also ensure that no others meet the same fate - and grant Rich the satisfaction of knowing that Fitzroy shall not escape punishment for his cruel murder of Kat. After all that Rich has done - taking such excellent notes despite his desire to flee the scenes, transcribing them and organising them into a logical arrangement - he deserves better than to be left without a fair resolution.

Sitting back in the chair, he continues to peruse. It might not advance his investigation any further, but he does not know what else to do.

* * *

The papers on Rich's desk have remained untouched for nearly an hour, despite his apparent fixed perusal of them. They are there, but he does not see the words upon them. Last night was the first through which he has slept in its entirety, though it has done little to drive away the sense of tiredness that presses down upon him like stone weights; but it granted him one refuge - he dreamed.

He wishes that the dream had been more than merely that - for she was there, her smile as loving as it had ever been, and her eyes lingered upon him as he remembered. He had wanted, so much, to speak to her - to tell her those words that he could not speak when she lived; but he had not been granted that privilege. Instead, he watched as she smiled at him, briefly, and then walked off into some indefinable mist. And he could not follow her; no matter how hard he tried. He recalls that he must, somehow, have known that he was dreaming, for he distinctly recalls that he had not wanted to wake - but he did; and woke alone.

What to do? Can he truly step away from the hunt for evidence to bring Fitzroy to justice? He was not present to save Kat from her terrible death - but she had done what she could to grant him some help, even as she knew that she herself would die. It would be a gross betrayal of that courageous act if he does not stand with Cromwell to bring this entire nightmare to a conclusion. How can he leave a man that he has come to regard as a friend to face that journey alone?

And yet…

Each day seems to be another hell - passing from one minute to the next, and the next, and the next, knowing that the only woman he has ever truly loved is gone, and he can never be with her again until all are with God and all is mended. If he is to do so, however, then he must recall her ghastly end, discuss it with Cromwell, and Butts - speak of the horror…the blood…what she must have suffered when she knew that she was facing death, and he was not there for her…Rich shudders, closes his eyes and attempts to drive the horrible visions from his head. _Remember her eyes…remember how she looked at you…remember how she used to say that she loved you…_

Does he regret knowing her? God, no - it was, despite all, an act of random violence that destroyed their joy in one another. Kat deserves better than regrets. She deserves justice - she deserves to have the man who killed her made to face punishment for his crime.

Setting the papers aside, Rich rises from his desk. He is doing no good where he is - and he does not wish to be excluded from the hunt for evidence. He thought he did - but his dream has convinced him otherwise.

* * *

Cromwell looks up as the door opens, and his eyes widen in surprise at the sight of Rich, though he is pleased to see that he has reconsidered his intention to abandon the investigation.

"I cannot let the matter go." He says, simply, and sits on the table, facing the papers that promise so much - but give so little. Rising from his chair, Cromwell sits alongside him, and they read the notes in silence for a while.

"How long has Fitzroy been absent now?" Rich asks, after a considerable time.

"A week." Cromwell replies, "Though that is not a long enough period for us to be truly assured that he is indeed responsible, and that no further murders shall occur at the Palace. I can, however, hope."

"I still do not understand _why._ "

"All but one of the victims were engaged in illicit relationships with men to whom they were not wed." Cromwell says, "Miss Culver was, therefore, likely to have been killed in error, for she alone was not."

"Fitzroy was the result of a liaison between a woman and a man to whom she was not wed." Rich muses, "Though why should that be a source of anger on his part? He has hardly been required to endure opprobrium as a consequence of his illegitimate birth - for unlike his sisters, he is male, and has no rival in the form of a true-born son. Well - not yet. The King has always showered him with affection, gifts and praise. Why does he wish to harm women when he has been blessed by his paternity?"

"His father, yes - but his mother is of considerably lower estate. She brought him into the world a bastard - and the King has set that aside. Perhaps that is the matter that drives him? He has been rendered illegitimate not by his father, but by his mother?"

"And thus he hates those who act as she did?" Rich asks, "But why would he do so? I am given to understand that she loved him as equally as his father."

"She did." Cromwell says, "I can recall the day that Fitzroy received his first honours - for I was present. Sir Thomas More himself declared them to the Court, and his mother was present to witness him receive them. It was, however, the last day that she was permitted to be his mother - for he was then granted his own household as though he were a Prince of the Blood, and she was obliged to become just a woman who might be permitted to visit him on occasion. From that day forth - his only real parent was his father."

"Do you think that his upbringing might have driven him mad?" Rich hazards, "How else can it be that he acts as he does? You and I have seen with our own eyes the horror he has wrought upon his victims - how can any man commit such a ghastly act, and yet be sane?"

"That, I cannot say." Cromwell admits, "Though I am loath to use the term 'mad', for it is used too easily to describe acts that make no sense to those of us who see things rationally. Perhaps it is a temporary madness of some sort - for if it is permanently upon him, how is it that he is not affected at all times? Such an aberrant mind would hardly be unnoticed."

"But why remove the womb in each case?" Rich asks, though he stops, and swallows hard, for Kat endured the same brutal mutilation, and he cannot bear to think of it.

"Some form of ritual?" Cromwell asks, only to receive a scornful glance from Rich.

"Are you suggesting witchcraft, or perhaps devil worship?" he asks.

Cromwell shakes his head, "No, not in so many words - perhaps something that he has created in his own mind - a ritual of religious bent that stems from his fanaticism. Given his keenness upon acts of violent atonement, as Gresham attested, perhaps he believes it to have significance of some kind."

"And yet, he is not seen; his crimes are not heard." Rich moves on to another question, "None see him approach the chambers, none hear him commit…" His voice catches, and he tries again, "…commit his acts, and none see him leave. This palace is as populated as an anthill, and Whitehall was even more so. How can it be that none saw him? He is hardly unknown. And - as we know, he would have required considerable assistance to ensure that his damaged clothing and shoes did not betray him when he departed."

"I am given to understand that his retinue is known for its loyalty, Richard." Cromwell adds, "Of those, a small cadre of men are particularly devoted to him - they are almost always at his side. I consider it reasonable to assume that, as he is receiving help, it is they who are providing it; though how they do so, and to what degree they are involved, I cannot begin to guess, and I am not entirely sure that I wish to."

They sit in silence again for a while, before Cromwell resumes, "And, of course, there is the question of what happens to the clothes he befouls when committing his crimes. They are not laundered here - that, we have confirmed. Are they taken elsewhere, or are they destroyed afterwards? It is, after all, not as though he cannot afford to replace them so frequently. Only the King is richer than he."

"Though that is largely thanks to the accrual of funds from the closure of the Religious Houses." Rich reminds him, "How truly wealthy the…prince…is, I could not begin to guess." He cannot bring himself to speak the name.

"But still…" Cromwell says, softly, "How is it that these murders are not overheard? We know that the victims are still living when their veins are opened…"

Rich moans, softly, for he does not wish to be reminded.

"It is, despite all, a quick end, Richard." Cromwell assures him, resting a hand upon his shoulder, "Doctor Butts has already said that consciousness is lost very quickly; but nonetheless, how is it that there was no struggle? No cry before the blow was dealt? Perhaps the victims were plied with drink, or some substance to render them unconscious. Thus they could not have cried out, and no sound was heard."

Rich shakes his head, "Kat knew." He says, painfully, "She could not have been unconscious - for she grasped the fragment of velvet from his doublet. She knew what he intended, and did what she could to leave us that one item that might help us."

"God rest her soul." Cromwell sighs, "And grant her the highest of Heavenly rewards for her bravery. But for her, we would not know even that which we know now."

Rich nods, shedding silent tears.

* * *

Cromwell sits quietly as Rich recovers his composure. Even now, it still amazes him that a man he thought to be so devoted only to his own advancement and wellbeing is so utterly broken by the loss of a woman with whom he had no formal relationship. That Rich has the capacity to care so deeply is something he never imagined to be possible, for, until this hideous ordeal began, he had seen no evidence of it.

"I am sorry." Rich says, very quietly, "It is hard to speak of her." He takes in a deep breath, and resumes, in a somewhat stronger voice, "If we could find some means of discovering what he keeps in that coffer…perhaps there is someone at Court whom we could question."

"I suspect not - for the ones most likely to know have returned to Lincolnshire with their master. We must look elsewhere, I think, for something that definitively links him to the deaths."

"Such as the jewels."

He nods, "That is so, Richard. Each of them have had a single jewel taken from them. If we could find _those_ upon Fitzroy…"

"But we cannot, Thomas." Rich reminds him, bitterly, "For who would grant us entry to his apartments? Who would permit us to search them? He is as untouchable as he has always been. Perhaps, in the end, we shall have no choice but to end his miserable life ourselves. I would happily fire a bullet into his head, even if to do so would send me to Tyburn to face the worst of deaths for my act. If he is gone, it would be worth it."

Cromwell shudders. The thought of such an act seems almost inconceivable - and yet, it may - at the last, be their only chance to end this.

* * *

Somewhere outside the walls of the room, the faint sound of the palace clock striking the first hour after noon captures their attention, "We must away." Cromwell sighs, "The Council meets at two, and I must prepare my papers."

Neither man is keen to attend; indeed - most of the Council would rather not - for the King's leg ulcer blocked again overnight, requiring his physicians to lance it. Another scare. Another disappointment that the bloody wound will not heal.

When he enters the Council chambers, the King's expression is set, and determined. It is clear to all present that he has come to a decision that is - to him, at least - monumental, and shall require their urgent attention.

"There is only one matter I wish to discuss, my Lords." He says, as they bow - before even they have seated themselves, "And that is the status of my eldest son." He waves them to sit as he does so. All obey, exchanging nervous glances.

As her Majesty the Queen is nearing confinement, I have decided that, when the Prince returns, he shall receive that which I have promised him. For I have - thanks to your endless delays - failed in that duty to him. I have no interest or desire to maintain such a state of affairs any longer."

Cromwell tenses. He knows what is coming next.

"It is my decision that, regardless of whether the Queen bears me a son or daughter, my Prince Henry shall be made legitimate at the earliest opportunity. I shall summon him back to Court as soon as he is able to depart from Collyweston, so get that Bill before Parliament, get it agreed - and set it for my assent before the end of this month, my Lord Cromwell. I shall then create him Duke of York. If her Majesty fails me and grants me another girl, then I shall invest him as Prince of Wales, and he shall be my successor. Thus, I demand the Devise for the Succession to be before me as soon as can be done. D'you hear me, Cromwell? As soon as it can be done!"

 _It is because of his leg…he thinks himself to be a man on the verge of dying…and now he intends to create a successor, regardless of what happens when the Queen gives birth…_

Despite his racing thoughts, Cromwell keeps his expression absolutely inscrutable, and nods, solemnly. He has no choice - it cannot be 'forgotten' any longer. As he looks up, he can see that Rich has grown even paler than he has been of late. They both know the consequences of such an act.

If Fitzroy becomes King, then God only knows what hell that shall lead them to.


	17. Payment for the Lack of a Knighthood

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 _Payment for the Lack of a Knighthood_

As the King departs the Privy Chamber, the Lords exchange glances, whether bemused or disgruntled - for some had points they wished to make on the items that were to have been discussed. Points, admittedly, that were intended to be critical of Cromwell rather than of any actual use, but still - they have been denied, and they are not happy.

Cromwell gathers his papers together, paying little attention to the high-born men about him. His eyes are on Rich, who has not moved in the slightest. His eyes are a little wide, and - as always - his expression gives away his thoughts. Fortunately, none of the departing Lords seem so much as to even notice. It is not long before they are alone.

"Come, Richard." Cromwell urges, "You cannot remain here. There is little we can do by sitting at this table in silence."

"He cannot come back, Thomas," Rich says, urgently, "surely there is a way that we can delay his return? Even though it has been but a week since he departed, and it is hardly likely that his retinue have even unpacked yet…"

"What would you have me do? I cannot cause the weather to change, and turn the roads - such as they are - to sloughs, nor can I bring down every tree that might lie in their path. Given his Majesty's decision, I fear that to do even _that_ would be a simpler matter than to attempt to persuade him to delay recalling his son to Court."

"And if he proves us to be right? Could our consciences truly stand that we permitted another unfortunate woman to die as Kat did?" Rich is trembling, "I do not - I _cannot_ stand to look upon another room befouled. I cannot…"

Cromwell rests a hand upon his shoulder, "I suspect that, with his determination to raise Fitzroy to the succession by whatever means he can, he shall monopolise the youth's time as he did through much of the last two months. Should he do so, then it shall be all but impossible for him to act. I think, perhaps, I shall see if I can devise some means to keep the boy as tightly watched as possible - for his safety, of course - and thus deny him any opportunity to commit acts of harm. Now that we know what we do - we can take what steps we can to keep him from those who might be in danger."

The suggestion causes Rich to nod, and he finally gathers his papers. As they return to the offices, Cromwell turns the matter over in his mind. How to do it? Sporting activities in which Fitzroy must participate - tennis, hunts…not Tourneys; the King will not permit Fitzroy to joust. Court functions - a feast to celebrate his arrival…private dinners with his father…lessons in statecraft… _keep that blasted boy captive to his obligations from morn to night. Have him surrounded by a retinue of Guards - in honour of his soon-to-be royal estate. Much as is the case with his Majesty_.

There are papers upon his desk that require his attention - but they must wait. Not only must he now take steps to introduce the Bill that shall legitimise Fitzroy to Parliament, which is - fortunately - in session, but he must sit down and put together a list covering every single activity or privilege he can think of that shall ensure that Fitzroy cannot escape the scrutiny of those who are not loyal solely to him. If he cannot keep the bastard from Court, then he shall do all he can to keep him from harming anyone while he is present. It is not only Rich who cannot face another room befouled with blood.

At least, unlike keeping Fitzroy away, this argument shall please the King.

* * *

A courier, using several changes of horse, reached Collyweston in just over a day, and returned by the same means to advise that the retinue was barely unpacked, so Fitzroy shall be back at Court by the end of the week. The King is, naturally, delighted at the news. Cromwell, on the other hand, feels rather unwell. Perhaps Rich's aversion to the youth is infectious.

If it could be possible, Rich seems even more withdrawn. He is present at Council meetings, but is so inactive that he might as well not be there at all; not that the King notices - he is far too pleased at the notion that his boy shall not only be back in his company again - barely two weeks after leaving it - but shall soon have his promised legitimacy, and his place in the succession.

"What progress on the Bill?" Henry asks, once the meeting is ended and the Councillors have departed to leave him alone with Cromwell.

"Progress is good, your Majesty." He advises, quietly, "There are no clauses within it that have given much cause for concern amongst the Commons, and I am confident that it shall be passed within a week; a week at the half at most."

The King nods, approvingly, "I have reviewed your paper discussing my son's return to Court and I am most satisfied. As a prince, he must be closely guarded from harm - and I expect you to hand-pick the guards whom you deem most trustworthy to escort and protect him."

"That I shall do, Majesty." Cromwell says, bowing deeply. _You can be most thoroughly assured of that_.

Rich is not in the offices when he returns, and Wriothesley looks up at him in surprise when he questions his colleague's whereabouts, "I assumed that there was more to discuss than usual."

Cromwell sighs, inwardly, and leaves his papers on his desk. Rich is unlikely to be in his chambers, so there is only one other place that he can be.

The papers on the wall have curled even more, and dust crowns them once again. Seated at the table, his head in his hands, Rich sees nothing of the slow decay of their work. Fitzroy is coming back to Court. The man who killed his darling Kat…who mutilated her…who took her from him…

He does not look up as the door opens, "I cannot stay, Thomas." His voice is breaking with pain, "I have to leave Court. I have to go - if he is here, I cannot remain."

"You are Chancellor of the Court of Augmentations, Richard. The King shall not grant you leave to go." Cromwell's voice is kind - but firm.

"And if I leave anyway?" he looks up, and Cromwell flinches inside at his expression, "I mean what I say. I cannot be here if Fitzroy is present."

"I have done all that I can to ensure that he is unable to cause any more harm. His Majesty believes my precautions are for the benefit of his son - when they are instead intended to keep him under close watch. I am to secure a dedicated squad of the Palace Guard to stand at his rooms and escort him wherever he goes. It is on the pretext that, as a Prince, he should be accompanied by an appropriate escort - both to protect him and to demonstrate his status. His Majesty has tasked me with selecting those who shall be granted this privilege - thus I can ensure that those who do so are loyal to _my_ agenda, not his."

Rich says nothing, but his shoulders droop somewhat, and Cromwell knows that he accepts that he is trapped at the Palace as much as though he were imprisoned there.

"We have the advantage of knowing him to be guilty, Richard." He resumes, more kindly, "I shall set all precautions that I can - and, if he returns, so does his retinue. It may be that we shall be able to find some breach in the armour he has set about himself; perhaps even obtain that damned coffer. Our objective now is not merely to bring a murderer to justice - but to ensure a youth such as he never gains the authority of the Crown. God help us all if he were to become King - for I fear that, if he were to be placed in the succession, he would find a way to stand at its head - even to the point of removing a newborn rival."

Rich's eyes widen, "Surely you do not think him capable of such an act against his own father?"

"At this point, I would think him capable of anything."

Strangely, it is this - the suggestion that their quarry might attempt to claim the Crown for himself - that finally breaks through Rich's inertia, "Then we must away to the Constable and secure the most trustworthy of his Guards."

"I think the most suitable would be Woodrow, Turner, Goode, Sharp, Johns, Byrde, Maxwell and Dowland." The Constable muses, "I shall place Lambton in charge as their Sergeant - he is worthy of the promotion." He looks up at Cromwell and Rich, "They are, without doubt, the most trustworthy of my men, and they shall work at your behest as honestly as they would work to mine."

"Thank you, Constable." Cromwell says, "It is essential that they remain entirely loyal to the King, and not to his Prince - for their task is to ensure his safety, regardless of his wishes. Even if her Majesty bears a son, he shall be too young to rule for many years yet - and thus his Grace the Duke of Richmond's welfare and security is of the highest priority once his legitimacy is confirmed."

The Constable's expression grows rather knowing, "And, I think," he continues, in a much lower voice, "You wish to ensure that the child grows up to take the Crown that is his by right of blood…"

"I believe our minds are meeting, Constable."

"I am not blind, my Lord. I am well aware that the youth is, shall we say, not the most _stable_ of individuals. The son of Queen Jane must be protected - even from those who might be considered to be closest to him."

"It is essential, Constable, that they guard him close at all times - but most importantly after he has left the King's company at the end of each day. He must not, under any circumstances, be able to wander the palace corridors in the hours of the night - for that is the time when the risk is greatest." He does not suggest _what_ risk he means.

"I shall draw up an appropriate roster, my Lord."

The clattering of hooves as Fitzroy's retinue enters the mews is all but deafening, though any dust has been laid by the thick drizzle that clouds the city. Despite the wet, the King has demanded that his highest Courtiers assemble to greet their prince, and he himself is at the forefront. Fitzroy is, after all, still his only son.

"Father!" the youth calls, brightly, "I am right glad to be returned to Court and your august presence!"

"As I am glad to see you returned, boy!" Henry shouts back, as Fitzroy dismounts and approaches him to be enfolded in a thick bear-hug, "Come - refresh yourself and then we shall talk. I have much to tell you." Ignoring all about them, he turns and walks his son back through to the main Palace, leaving the assembled Lords in the rain.

As the disgruntled, and wet, Peers disperse, Cromwell makes his way to Rich, who has been standing as far away as it is possible to be without actually being entirely absent, "Return to the offices, Richard." He says, quietly, "I shall supervise the assignment of Guards to Fitzroy - if only to see the look upon his face…"

Rich is staring at something behind him.

"What?"

"Look at the retinue - well, one of them. That one over there with the broken nose." Rich says, keenly.

Cromwell turns, and watches as the man Rich has identified dismounts. He is some distance away from the others, his expression surprisingly sour. The others ignore him, jesting and laughing between themselves, "That is Stephen Mount."

"He seems somewhat disgruntled by something." Rich observes.

"He does indeed." Cromwell agrees, "I think it may be worth enquiring as to why."

"I shall see to it." Rich says, "You are required with the King, are you not?"

Cromwell nods, and departs. As he goes, Rich steps back to conceal himself behind some bales of straw, and waits for the noisy retainers to depart. While he cannot hear the jovial conversations, the Grooms can.

As they go, Mount trailing along in their wake, he emerges and approaches the assembled Grooms as though he has no specific intent.

"Good morning, my Lord." One of them, a youth who seems most often to be present when he requires his horse, looks up at his approach, "Do you intend to ride? I fear it shall be a while before I can harness your horse."

"No, Paul - there is no need. I came only to enquire as to his wellbeing, for I have not been free to ride recently."

"He required the replacement of a shoe my Lord, but nothing untoward beyond that."

Rich nods, "I await the farrier's bill with bated breath. What was all that jesting about?" he asks, as though as an aside, "They seemed to find much amusement in their conversation."

"His Grace's men?" the boy Paul says, "Ah, they are most pleased - for it seems that his Grace the Duke has knighted them all - well, all except Mr Mount." He frowns, "I thought only the King could do that?"

Rich shakes his head, "Any noble can confer a knighthood, Paul. I was fortunate to receive mine from his Majesty - but even her Majesty the Queen could confer one if she so desired. I think that they can be granted as easily as sweetmeats."

"Perhaps - but they are all delighted with their rewards for their services. Except for Mr Mount, of course."

"Of course. But then, would you not be?" Rich says, "My thanks to you, Paul. I shall be by as soon as may be - I suspect that my poor horse has forgotten what it is to be ridden."

As he returns to the Palace, Rich turns the thought over in his mind. While it is the right of any high-placed noble to confer a knighthood, none here would dare to do such a thing; his Majesty guards his privileges like a lion, and would not countenance such activity. If anything, he would see it as a usurpation of his royal prerogative, and almost certainly react with violence. Not even Charles Brandon, one of his closest friends, or Thomas Howard, the most high-born of all the Nobles at Court, would be such a fool. In years gone by, when his Majesty was not so suspicious of those about him, they could -and did - but no longer.

"Indeed no." Cromwell agrees, once they have returned to the investigation room, "They might not dare - but Fitzroy is entirely different. I have no doubt, none, that his Majesty shall merely laugh, and ratify the knighthoods - to reinforce his own authority if nothing else. If he is not warned of his son's presumption by this, however, I can only fear the depth of his wilful blindness." He pauses, "Though the lack of such a reward for Mount would seem to be quite remarkable - and an opportunity that we cannot let by, I think."

"Indeed we cannot." Rich agrees, "He might be able to enlighten us as to the contents of that coffer."

"Indeed he might."

* * *

Standing in the Waiting Chamber, Cromwell watches carefully as Stephen Mount circulates amongst the other Courtiers. He is not fool enough to assume that the larger man shall willingly divulge all that they ask from him - for he is, or at least _was_ , a loyal member of Fitzroy's retinue. The man's broken nose speaks rather brutishly of his love of fighting, and he has been known to wade into quite enormous brawls before now in defence of his Prince's rather dubious honour. To interview him, and demand he keep mum about their discussions, is a great risk. If he tells Fitzroy, then all could well be lost, for he shall ensure that all evidence is destroyed.

 _But I shall do it_. He thinks to himself - five women are dead, and Rich is only now beginning to recover some sense of purpose after the loss of Kat. It is worth it - for the sake of his friend if no one else. Besides, what of the safety of other women at Court? No - there is no choice. It must be done.

Rich is waiting for him in the room that they have set aside nearby: paper, quills and ink at the ready. All that he, Cromwell, must do is find some means of getting Mount out of the chamber without people noticing, and the possibility of gossip reaching the ears of Fitzroy.

Positioning himself close to the entrance, Cromwell seems almost to blend into the walls, and gives off an air of quiet disinterest. All about him ignore him for the usual reasons - leaving him free to keep a close eye upon his prey. He pauses - perhaps he should not be surprised to be considering Mount in such terms; for now he is a hunter, and he is keen to ensure a kill.

It is the arrival of other members of the retinue that grants him the opportunity he seeks. Their noisy conversation, and boasting over their now privileged status as Knights Bachelor, causes Mount to scowl and step to the side of the room as though avoiding them. Moving through the small space between the assembled throng and the tapestry-hung walls, he sneaks to the door, and is through it without their seeing him. Equally, none see Cromwell as he does likewise, and is soon alongside Mount in the corridor, where now none are present.

"Mr Mount. A word." Despite his thinner frame, he has the edge upon Mount in height, and his expression is dangerous. He expects resistance - this man is, after all, a known brawler - but instead receives nervous deference. Mount knows that Cromwell is more than capable of having him removed to the Tower, it seems.

"My Lord?"

"In here." He says, shortly, grabbing Mount's elbow and steering him towards the room they have set aside. Rich looks up as they enter, his expression guarded and cold.

"What is it, my Lord?" Mount blusters, "Have I offended in some way?"

"Sit."

Mount complies, and looks even more nervous.

"Before we begin," Cromwell says, threateningly, "let me make it clear that nothing - not one word - of what we discuss in this room shall be spoken of afterwards. You shall not tell any that you spoke to us, nor shall you reveal to any the topics of which we speak. If you do, I have many ears about the Court, and I shall know. You have no noble rank, and thus - if necessary - I shall introduce you to a lady of my acquaintance - the daughter of the Duke of Exeter."

Mount stares at him, the stark colour draining from his face, "You would not…"

"Believe me. I would." Cromwell's expression darkens. Unlike most who are capable of bullying others, Cromwell is no coward. It appears that Mount, on the other hand, is. Using his fists holds no fear for him, but he is prey to one who knows well how to intimidate, for all know that Cromwell is the most powerful man at Court after the King himself. If he chooses to send a man to the Tower, and to the rack, he can - and will - do it.

"What do you want of me?"

"I want information." Cromwell says, leaning in close, "Information about the Duke of Richmond."

"What information?"

"All that you can supply." He rests an arm, almost confidentially, about Mount's shoulders, "Tell me all you know about Henry Fitzroy."

* * *

"I am not amongst those closest to his Grace," Mount says, rather nervously, "Thus I cannot tell you all - though I know not what you wish to know…"

"I think you do." Cromwell says, coldly.

"You would do better speaking to Herbert, Colling, Stacke and Bellman."

"I am speaking to you." Behind him, Cromwell hears the nib scratching as Rich notes down the names of the four retainers who have received knighthoods from Fitzroy, "As I said - tell me what you know of Fitzroy."

"He is a loyal and true son of the King…" Mount begins.

"Tell me information that I do _not_ know. Madame Exeter is but a barge ride away."

Mount looks terrified - a strange, rather vile expression that belies his broken nose, "What would you have me tell you, my Lord?"

"Tell me of Fitzroy's habits. His views - his opinions. On women, for example. Or perhaps upon his status."

"He despises women." Mount seizes upon something that he can offer in order to avoid the rack, "All women - for in his mind they are corrupted by foul humours. They stain all men by their existence - and it is an affront to him that men must come from them into the world."

He pauses, nervously, as both of the men face him, frowning in disbelief, "Are you suggesting that he would prefer it if men could give birth to men?" Cromwell asks, though his eyes are keen in anticipation of the answer.

"It is, I think, because he is not true-born. His mother was a whore - of the King's, yes - but still a whore. Though he views all women so. Even those who are wedded - for their presence is a contamination upon all men. It is thanks to her that he is not a true-born son of his Majesty."

"And what of his Majesty's involvement?" Cromwell asks, "Is he not equally to blame? He did, did he not, bed Mistress Blount, and sire Fitzroy with his own seed?"

"She tempted him with her wiles - and thus corrupted him." Mount says.

"How do you know all of this if you are not amongst those closest to him?" Rich asks, looking up from his papers.

"It is not a confidence that he keeps. He speaks in such terms often - he will have nothing to do with his wife, for he has no desire to be contaminated by the humours that reside in her womb. He considers that to be the centre of a woman's evil: it is that which keeps them from the perfection of the male state - and thus requires such atonement to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. It was, after all, the woman who brought about Adam's fall."

"Do you subscribe to this view?" Cromwell asks, casually.

"I do not - and I am not sure that any of us do; but we claim to, for it does not please him if any disagree with him."

"So he avoids women at all costs. Does he prefer men, then?"

Mount shakes his head, vigorously, "No, my Lord, he is not of that persuasion - his urges are the same as that of any other man. Bellman procures trulls from the street for him to bed at least twice each week."

"He beds prostitutes, but not his wife?"

Mount nods.

"Why risk the pox when he has access to a woman who can provide him with his needs - for it is his conjugal right?"

"That I cannot say - though I rarely see them when they arrive, and never when they leave, for we are all abed by that time…" he stops.

"What?"

"I think that he wishes to perform acts that should not be performed upon a wife. For I have, now and again, heard screams." Mount admits, "Though all act as though they have not been heard. We do not ask questions - for he killed a servant who did by whipping him to death. As he did another who spoke of his bloodline."

Cromwell shudders, recalling the rumour that Gresham had mentioned. So it is true, then.

"What of his religious activities?" He changes tack.

"He is most strongly religious, my Lord. His devotions are daily."

"In what context?" Cromwell's eyes are suddenly narrow, and Mount quavers under his gaze.

"He…he is very much intent upon atonement for sins, my Lord. He speaks the one hundred and thirtieth psalm frequently, and recites the _Confiteor_ daily - many times over and over."

" _De Profundis_? Out of the deep, call I unto the Lord?" Cromwell prompts.

"That is correct, my Lord."

"And his coffer?"

Mount stares at him nervously, "You know of that?"

Cromwell nods, "What do you know of it?"

"I know not what lies within it - but it is made of ebony, and is carved with many religious symbols and scenes. It is not overly large - it could hold papers, or a relic or two, perhaps. It has a remarkable padlock upon it - one that is opened by aligning several dials in sequence. Though I know not how it is done. As I have said, I know not what is within it, but it is always with him, wherever he goes, and he protects it fiercely - forbidding any to touch it or open it. It is always at his side when he seeks atonement - which is why I think perhaps it contains relics, for he requires their holy presence to assure him of God's love."

"Is there anything else you have to tell me?" Cromwell asks.

"I…I do not think so…" Mount looks very nervous, "I cannot think of anything - though I know that his four closest retainers are his protectors even as the new guard detail is not. You would gain more information from them than I can supply."

"I shall think on it." Cromwell leans in horribly close again, "Now. Remember: if you speak of this to anyone - any at all - the very walls of this palace have ears, and they report to me. If you do, I shall know - and you shall be in the Tower before the sun has set."

"You have my word, my Lord. On my mother's grave." Mount sweats.

"I accept your word." Cromwell rises, then turns to Mount, his eyes fearsome, "Get out."

His eyes terrified, Mount flees.

"God above." Rich says, quietly, "It's not just the Court women. If we do not stop him - then we are all bound for hell."


	18. The Trophy Chain

**A/N:** Thank you for your kind words, Blurgle - I'm so pleased that you're enjoying! Also thanks to everyone who is reading along.

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 _The Trophy Chain_

The curling, dusty papers tacked to the wall of their investigation room have new companions, as Rich carefully transcribes his notes from their disturbingly revealing interview with Mount. As he writes, he feels a sense of unpleasant nausea that is nothing to do with blood and gore, but more to do with a mind that even he considers to be warped. Until he met Kat, he had never viewed his mistresses as anything other than minor playthings to tumble with and present with trifling gifts until boredom caused him to push them away. Even so, he had never seen any of the women in such dark terms - and when he had found Kat, everything had changed.

The thought of her causes him to tense inside, forcing himself to hold back the tide of anguish that always threatens to overwhelm him if he allows her the freedom of his memory. Now, it is too painful; but, in time, he hopes, they shall merely sting briefly, before their warmth surrounds him and he smiles with gratitude that he knew her. But not yet. Not yet…

 _As long as you are with me, Kat. I shall always care._

His left hand rises to his doublet, where the packet that contains the lock of her hair now rests in a pocket. God, if only he had the pearl drop - she treasured that so much; as much as he treasured her.

And now there are tears. He must stop this - now is not the time. He does not have time to grieve - not when they are trying to end all of this…

The last paper is pushed away, and he slumps over his folded arms to weep, the tears soaking into his sleeves.

He does not hear the door open, and the sensation of a hand on his shoulder causes him to look up with such desperate hope that Cromwell backs away, shocked, "Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you…"

"I thought you were her…" he sobs, "I thought you were her…oh God, Thomas - I want this to end…it is more than I can bear to be without her…" he buries his face in his folded arms once more.

Cromwell stands over him, trembling as his own grief surfaces in sympathy. Even though it was the sweat that took Liz, and not a brutal killer, his sense of loss is no less - for he was not with her when she faced the end - any more than Rich was with Kat. Though, had he been, he could not have saved her - unlike Rich, who could. How must that feel? To know that, but for one small decision, he could still have her at his side - and he made the wrong choice.

He crouches alongside Rich, resting his hand on his friend's shoulder again, "I cannot begin to know the pain that you feel, Richard," He says, his voice choked, "and I wish that all could be different - but I need you to be strong. I need you to stand with me, for we are walking into the valley of the shadow of death - and even though I fear no evil, it is not merely because God is with me."

"I am not strong." Rich murmurs, looking up, "I have never been strong - God help me, I perjured myself at your behest - not because I wished to, but because I was too weak to refuse. It matters not that the King demanded more from Fisher and More than their consciences were prepared to grant - and that they chose to die rather than submit to him. I knew even as I acted that what I was doing was a mortal sin, and still I did so - _for I was too weak to refuse_."

"Then think of this as your atonement, Richard." Cromwell seizes the opportunity, "As we sinned against Fisher and More - and against those who died with Anne Boleyn - then we must grasp this chance to offer ourselves to bring this depravity to an end. And we must do so without resorting to the vile acts that placed our souls in such peril. We must dedicate this task not just to those who have died, but also those who have died through our actions - and if to do so means our end, then we shall accept it gladly, for no more shall suffer as they did."

Rich holds his gaze, his effort to regain control of his pain written across his expressive face. Eventually, he closes his eyes, and nods, "I shall do it. For them. For her."

"For England." Cromwell finishes, quietly. Rich's eyes flick open again, and he stares at Cromwell, startled, "England?"

"Would you be willing to live in an England ruled by Fitzroy?" Cromwell asks, "If he is declared legitimate and granted the Dukedom of York - what is to stop him desiring more? He has no fear of destruction, and he has grown up in the King's adoration. Why not eliminate a rival? For if the Queen bears a son, he shall have a rival that his half-sisters are not. If his Majesty forgives all his sins, then he must believe himself to be absolutely above all censure - though, if he waits until after the King is gone, then he need have no fear even of that. It is not just the women of this Court who are in mortal danger, Richard. Not by half."

Suddenly frightened, Rich grabs at the paper he discarded, "Then…" he says, then clears his throat, "then we must to work. And quickly."

Rising to his feet, Cromwell perches upon the table, "What has Mount's testimony given us?"

Rich thinks for a while, "I should say that we now have a motive - and he has possibly named those who aid Fitzroy in his acts - for his four closest retainers are always around him, and intensely loyal. Though I was not aware of his excessively pious acts. He is hardly known for his piety - and his actions at the Midnight Mass suggested to me that he wished to be anywhere but where he was."

"In what way?" Cromwell asks, not having been present.

"His eyes were flicking in all directions - he seemed almost febrile. He fidgeted and looked about him as though eager to be elsewhere. I thought then it was merely because he did not wish to be standing in the chapel for such a time when he could have been carousing with his retainers."

"Perhaps, then, he had acted already to kill - and was in a maddened state because of it. Or maybe he was desirous to do so - and could not, for he was in the Mass." Cromwell muses, "God help us - he _must_ be wrong in the head…"

"I think it is not because of abstinence." Rich adds, "For it appears that he is most intent upon the carnal act - even if not with his wife; though that suggests unhealthy appetites if he will not touch his wife, yet has women of the streets brought to his bed so frequently. Given that his act is adultery, he would…"

"Fornication, Richard." Cromwell interrupts, "I suspect that most of the women procured for him are not wedded. He is committing sins, yes - but not what would be considered a mortal sin, unless some of those who came to him were married. Nonetheless - it would explain his need, in his mind at least, to undertake such frequent and extensive atonement. He appears to be most singularly driven."

Rich reddens, "I would be a liar if I did not admit to being driven in a similar fashion; have I not had mistresses? I found little pleasure with my own wife, for she considered our couplings to be a requirement of marriage for procreation - a submission to my conjugal rights as a husband. I wanted more than that - and found it in other women, but never so deeply as I found it with Kat. It mattered not to me that her face was pitted with scars - she reached into me to a degree that I did not know was possible." He stops, embarrassed at his confession, "But I have never, at any time, found myself burdened with the need for excessive self-punishment, nor did I require their presence to the degree that Fitzroy seems to do with the women who are procured for him. My wish to see Kat as frequently as I did was more to enjoy her company than to welcome her into my bed. The greatest pleasure was waking in the morning to see her beside me, and to know that…" he stops, his throat narrowing again.

"To know that she loved you." Cromwell finishes, quietly. His eyes tightly closed, Rich nods.

They sit in silence for a while. They have something akin to a motive now - a reason why Fitzroy might have killed those five women; and there are aspects of his behaviour that suggest a distinctly unhealthy frame of mind. But still, it is not enough - suspicions are not proof: they need proof…

"I have done what I can to hobble him - but we must obtain the coffer." Cromwell says, quietly, "The more I know of this, the more I am convinced of it. The coffer is the key to all. Either it shall exonerate him - and take us back to the start again, or it shall set the final pieces of this puzzle into place."

"And how are we to do that?" Rich asks.

"I have no idea."

* * *

The King's laughter is raucous and merry, while his Queen sits alongside with a polite smile. From her expression, Cromwell imagines that she is almost eager to go into confinement, and escape her husband's ghastly adulation of a youth that merits none of it.

Watching them, he remembers that day, eleven years back, when the boy entered the Presence Chamber - small, blonde and so sweet to look at that all viewed him with dewy eyed adoration. His mother stood to the rear, tearful and proud of her child; trumpets brayed to welcome him to the chamber and all stood aside to admit him. His honours were read to the court by the Lord Chancellor, while he had stood behind Cardinal Wolsey and watched silently as the child was bestowed with more than many men could expect to accumulate in an entire lifetime in royal service.

He looks across the Hall now, where the youth sits alongside his doting father. His hair darkened as he grew - perhaps in conjunction with the darkening of his soul? Though Cromwell is aware that many children born fair-haired lose their golden locks in favour of darker hues as they grow. Now, he sits alongside the King, carouses with apparent joy - and yet, if one looks deeper…with knowledge that others lack…

Yes: those eyes - they flit here and there, taking in all and marking it. If the boy is mad, then he is not always so. He must have lucid moments - times when his sharpness and remarkable intelligence speak to him rather than the devilish voices of his insanity. If that is so, then he, Cromwell, must tread even more carefully than he thought. This is a man who sees all, notes it, and understands its import in a manner that most do not.

But then - if he has lucid periods, why is it that he is not crippled by guilt at all times? Does his determination to expunge his sins by kneeling on that lattice convince him that he is absolved completely?

 _If thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss…O Lord, who may abide it._

 _For with the Lord there is mercy and plenteous redemption…_

Cromwell shudders. Mount said that Fitzroy placed great importance in the one hundred and thirtieth psalm. Does he truly believe that kneeling on a lattice and reciting a latin statement over and over again shall lead to such a state? And yet he must.

 _De Profundis…Out of the deep…_

Perhaps he _does_ know that his actions are an offence against God in the greatest manner possible - but still he continues. He must be mad. _Must_ be. He wishes that he was hiding at the back of the hall, as Rich is doing.

"My boy!" Henry laughs, "Kingly in mind and deed! Let it be known that I have agreed to, and ratified the knighthoods my Prince has bestowed! His Father's son!"

All about applaud, politely; though the higher Lords exchange sour looks. The King has made it very clear to them what shall happen if _they_ try something like that. Once, perhaps, when he was young and more carefree; but no longer.

At least he is doing what Cromwell has obliquely persuaded him to do. Fitzroy is never far from his side - hunting, attending Privy Council meetings, and always supping with him. His 'honour guard' remains about him at all times - guarding his doors throughout the night. No matter what he wishes, he cannot escape independent witnesses.

He sighs, inwardly. Those Privy Council meetings are an absolute crucifixion for Rich - who cannot continue to feign illness to escape them. He always sits at the farthest end of the Council table, far from the King and his dreadful son, and seems permanently intent upon his papers. So far, fortunately, his Majesty has not required him to advise on the progress of the Court of Augmentations. God alone knows what might happen if he does.

Rather than linger, he makes his way to the rear of the hall, where he finds Rich partially concealed behind a pillar, "Look at him." He whispers, "God help us - I think we are making him worse, not better."

Cromwell turns. Yet again, the King is leaning close to his son, and his expression could not speak more clearly of his ongoing adoration of the only boy he has managed to produce from any of his liaisons with a woman. They are too far away to overhear the conversation, but Cromwell knows his King well - and can only imagine the promises being made… _legitimised…made Duke of York…added to the Succession behind his half brother and ahead of his half-sisters…_

"What a tangle…" he sighs, "If Fitzroy did not consider himself a true son before, then he shall now."

"If he were a true son," Rich says, bitterly, "then he would have done his duty to his country and produced a son of his own. Even I have managed such a feat. His marriage is not even consummated."

They watch, silently, from the rear of the hall as the King continues to monopolise his son's attention with lavish praise, jests and conversation. Beside him, Cromwell knows that Rich is trembling again, fighting to contain the rage that is eating at him, for he knows - they both know - that they are looking upon a killer who is so utterly protected that even a confession might not be sufficient to bring him to justice.

"Go, Richard. There is no point in remaining: for the only one that your fury harms is yourself. Let him be - find somewhere quiet and take a stick to a tree trunk if you must. The King shall bring you down if you allow your anger to run."

He watches as Rich leaves the hall, then turns back to the dais. Suffolk is watching him, his eyes still rather uncertain, for he is intrigued at the two men who once loathed each other, but who are now thick as thieves. Keeping his expression neutral, he approaches the Duke, "Your Grace."

Despite his curiosity, Brandon still dislikes Cromwell, but he is not one to forget his manners, "My Lord Cromwell. Is Sir Richard unwell? I heard that the most recent victim was…" he fishes for a word that does not sound crude or insulting, "…close to him."

"He is grieving, your Grace, and in great distress," Cromwell says, quietly, "For he came upon her remains."

Brandon closes his eyes, and genuflects, "Forgive me; that, I did not know." He sighs, "And what progress have you made in finding the killer?"

"Some - though few are willing to aid us in our quest. I fear that the perpetrator is being shielded; and thus we shall never be able to identify them." He looks up as the King laughs loudly again, presumably at something Fitzroy said to him, "His Majesty seems greatly content."

"He is, my Lord. Most content - though, if truth be told, he is storing up trouble for himself if her Majesty bears him a son. He seems not to appreciate that the babe shall outrank the youth - or, if he does, he thinks it not to be important. Indeed - this very day, he told the boy that he must have been chosen by God, for did he not survive the attempt of the late Queen Anne to poison him?"

 _Not that again_ …Cromwell sighs. An illness, swiftly past - and suddenly the fault of a woman Henry was eager to remove from his sight. He turns to Brandon, startled that the Duke has imparted such a confidence to him.

"I hope that it is merely his Majesty's jest. He is no fool, after all - as those who rose against him discovered."

"Perhaps." Brandon agrees, "Though, if truth be told, I have known him many years - in almost all things, he is shrewd and keen, but in others, he has no more wit than a natural."

 _Suffolk fears Fitzroy as I do._ Cromwell realises, "Then we must, as always, be his closest, most loyal and true advisers, your Grace, and pray that God grants him continued long life." He is not fool enough to openly speak of his concerns.

"Indeed we must." Brandon says, then nods his head, and moves on.

Oddly, in spite of their mutual enmity, Cromwell suddenly feels somewhat less alone.

* * *

Despite the amount of work Rich has undertaken in transcribing his notes, such is his wish to avoid his chambers, and the bed in which he is now obliged to wake alone, that he has managed to keep pace with the reports that are being delivered on an almost hourly basis from the commissioners. The funds that the sale of monastic lands are generating is such that he can hardly believe that so much wealth was held by those who were meant to plead poverty. His own embrace of reform might be lukewarm at best; but, nonetheless, the astonishing sums of money that he is handling - even if only on paper - seem obscene. While labourers could expect to earn no more than ten pounds in a year, the great religious houses that praised their poverty were sitting upon hundreds of thousands of pounds of wealth that they were keeping for themselves and giving to no one. He is confident that, when all is done, the figures shall rise into the millions; for all that he has already seen - and, if he be honest, to which he has helped himself to some degree - has already passed that milestone, and continues to rise.

Cromwell is reading his latest report, and from where he sits, Rich can see his expression. Guarded though Cromwell is, even his face betrays his astonishment at the sheer degree of wealth that has been withheld from the Crown, and from the people. His eyes narrow in disgust as he reaches the end of the report, where the final figures are tallied. Then he gathers the paper and crosses to Rich's desk.

"And they preach poverty." Is all that he says.

"While they decorate their churches with gold, and wrap statues in silk." Rich adds.

"And where does his Majesty intend these funds to be spent?" Cromwell asks, hoping that there might be some that he can divert towards his hoped-for Poor Laws. Any that has diverted in his direction has done so on the way in - rather than on the way out.

"Additional plans for the remodelling of St James's Palace, my Lord." Rich supplies, "Which he requires to be undertaken at the first opportunity - so I must obtain his ratification upon this report today if that is to be possible before the workers must stop for the Winter."

"Your chances of doing so are slim at best, I fear." Cromwell advises, "His Majesty has already cancelled the Privy Council meeting - I think he intends to keep his boy company for the rest of the day."

Rich tenses, "That, I wish I did not have to hear."

"Go. The sooner it is done, the sooner you shall be away from his unwanted presence." Cromwell advises, "I shall ensure that there is a fresh flagon of wine nearby for your return."

"I suspect I shall need it."

* * *

Despite knowing that his Majesty is not in the Palace, Rich still visits the Privy Chamber, as though putting off the inevitable moment when he must be in the presence of Fitzroy. God - if the coffer _does_ prove him innocent, then what shall he do? His horror of the youth has become so ingrained that he cannot think in any other way.

"His Majesty is at the Tennis Court, my Lord." The Usher says, blandly, "We do not expect him to return until he intends to sup."

Cursing himself for being so fearful, Rich turns and makes his way out of the palace towards the smaller hall that houses the King's tennis court. Once a great player in his own right, Henry still loves to watch the game, and his expertise is such that those who play can expect the most brutal of critiques as they do so. Not having such skill himself, and being far too busy to do so, Rich never attends the matches, and would not understand what was happening if he did.

As is always the case, where the King is, so is much of the rest of the Court, so the galleries that surround the court are crowded. It is, however possible to reach the royal box without difficulty, and he is shown in.

To his dismay, however, the King is not tempted by the promise of good news, and requires him to wait, "The game is nearly at an end, and my boy is winning. Your report can wait until it is done."

Despite himself, Rich's eyes are drawn to the court, where four men are engaged in fierce play. The hated Fitzroy is partnering the Duke of Suffolk, while Francis Bryan and one of his fellow Minions oppose them. Being solidly competitive, Bryan has no intention of deferring to royalty on the tennis court, even with only one eye to help him, and the match is being hard fought.

His heart constricts briefly at the sight of Fitzroy, who has just won a point and puffs up with pride like a very god on earth - but he cannot leave, not without the King's signature. Once he has that, he can escape. _Patience…be patient…look away…breathe…breathe…_

"Yes!" Henry exults, applauding delightedly, "Like father, like son! The winning point, and the match!" He rises painfully to his feet as Fitzroy bounds from the court and marches into the Royal box as though he owns it, and merely permits his father to use it, "I live to make you proud, your Majesty!" he says, though there is an edge of falseness in it that almost turns Rich's stomach.

And then it hits him: a waft of sweat, yes but…

 _Vetiver…and hints of bergamot_ …

Fitzroy ignores him as he looks up sharply. The man before him is sweating, yes, the linen of his shirt damp and clinging to him as it gapes at the throat, revealing the chain that he wears, right in Rich's eyeline. There are items upon it - hardly unusual perhaps, for many men carry charms of one sort or another, but these…these…

 _A diamond pendant…an emerald tipped pin…a diamond fur clasp..a hoop earring of clustered pearls…and…and…_

The black pearl drop. Kat's pearl drop…

 _The missing jewels - Fitzroy has them - all of them…all…he must have taken them…trophies from his killings_ … _oh, dear Christ…_

"Well, Mr Rich?" The King interrupts, and he turns, sharply.

"Your Majesty," he stammers, bowing hastily, "I-I have the figures for the latest tranche of funds from the sale of monastic lands for your signature."

He stands, trembling, as Henry signs off the accounts and waves him away without another glance, instead transferring his entire attention to Fitzroy. Rich wants, more than anything, to denounce the murderous youth - but even in his anguished state, he knows he cannot.

Instead, he turns and departs. Cromwell must know of this - it is Fitzroy. It _is_.

* * *

Setting aside the final version of the newly passed bill to legitimise Fitzroy and place him in the succession, Cromwell sighs and reaches for a cup of wine. All that is required to make it an Act now is the signature of the King. Much as he would like to defer the matter, he cannot do so - not now. He must take it to his Majesty tomorrow, and give Fitzroy open access to the entire royal family. If he chooses to take that which he sees as his, then there is nothing that anyone shall be able to do to stop him.

He looks up sharply, as Rich skids to a halt at the door, his eyes rather wild. Why has he been running? He is winded, there is sweat upon his brow - and he seems rather keen for his colleague to join him. Ignoring the bemused stares of the clerks, and the rather scandalised expression upon Wriothesley's face, Cromwell rises and follows Rich to the investigation room.

"It's Fitzroy." Rich gulps, as soon as the door is closed behind them, "He has the jewels - all five of them. Even Kat's pearl. He has them - he must have taken them…we have him. We _have_ him!"

His eyes sad, Cromwell shakes his head, "We do not, Richard. That is not enough - for it is still our word against his. He could claim them to be tokens from lovers - and the King would find it most amusing. His denial would carry more weight than the accusation of all who knew the owners of the jewels he holds. It must be a confession - nothing less shall do, and even that is not likely to be enough. Not with Fitzroy."

"He has my Kat's pearl, Thomas! He could only have stolen it from her - it was precious to her, for _I_ gave it to her! She had no one else - no one would have her because they took one look at her pocked face, and saw nothing of the heart that was beating behind it!"

"And it is still your word against his."

"Is this just a legal case to you? Just an academic exercise? Who have you lost, Cromwell? Has Fitzroy torn your heart out, as he has mine? Damn you for your coldness! She is dead - he killed her, and you are willing to leave him to kill again for you will not act now that we have the proof that he is involved!"

"I want him to be stopped. Believe me, I do - but there is only one way, and that is to force him to confess. Even the most irrefutable evidence shall not be sufficient in comparison. That he has taken those jewels from the victims can be explained away without difficulty - for all he needs to say, as I have already said, is that they were granted to him by the women, and it is mere coincidence that they died as they did - or perhaps another Courtier saw that he was with them and took it upon themselves to punish them for their presumption. It has to be a confession. Nothing less shall do - and I _want_ to get it."

"By protecting him?" Rich cries, "He wears Vetiver, mixed with bergamot; he was reeking of it! What more do you need?"

"A confession."

"Or would you prefer to have him caught in the act? Slaughtering another woman? Does the thought of it excite you, Cromwell?" Rich is aiming to wound, such is his own pain, "To be proved right, and thus gain even more trust from his Majesty as you bring down another of those about him, as you brought down Fisher, More and the Boleyns?"

Cromwell stands, implacable, "I ask only that he be stopped - and there is only one way that we can succeed in doing so, Richard: by forcing him to admit it, from his own mouth. _Proof_."

"We have it! He is _wearing_ it!"

"It is not proof - he can explain it away. By lying, yes - but still he can explain it, and the King shall believe him. You know he shall."

"I cannot do this!" Rich says, suddenly, as though he cannot breathe, "I cannot…" he pauses, then turns to his colleague, "Take these damned papers, Cromwell! _You_ look after the Court of Augmentations! I refuse to remain in this place a moment longer! If he is not to be stopped, then he shall take all, but I shall not be here to see it!" He throws the papers in his hands to the floor, " _That_ is my resignation, Cromwell! Do not think to come after me - I shall be packing up my possessions, and I shall depart before nightfall. It is, after all, not as though the King shall notice my absence!"

Without another word, he turns upon his heel, and is gone.

His eyes sad, Cromwell reaches down to retrieve the scattered papers. He refuses to blame Rich for his anger; it is, after all, the strongest evidence they have yet found of Fitzroy's culpability - but still, it is not enough. Setting the papers back in order, he looks at the walls, and their ranks of notes pinned so carefully to the plaster. So much - and yet, not enough.

"Damn you, Fitzroy."

Tucking the papers under his arm, he exits the room and closes the door behind him.

* * *

The breeze is fresh, for summer is drawing to its close. The roses of the Privy Garden are being deadheaded by the gardeners, and most Courtiers are indoors now despite the early afternoon sun. A few beds away, a dunnock is working its way through ranks of rose bushes, while Rich sits alone on a bench and stares at nothing at all.

He has spoken out of turn to Cromwell. He knows it; and he knows that Cromwell is right. The chain is not the proof they need - even though it screams to him that Fitzroy killed his beloved Kat. All Fitzroy has to do is boast to the King that they are tokens from his lovers, and Henry shall laugh delightedly at his prowess, before having both his ministers arrested for their false accusations. Truth be told, they are no further forward now than they were when Doctor Butts washed Kat's blood out of that fragment of velvet.

He cannot stay - not now. There is nothing here for him any longer but pain, regret and loss. What of political power or financial gain? He has seen the worst of humanity, and can do nothing to bring justice to those who were crushed by that violence. It is perhaps better then to abandon all, and return to the children that he loves, and the wife he does not. The house is big enough for them to live their lives separately…he shall go back to lawyering…better that than this…

"Sir Richard Rich." A voice intones beside him. Bemused, he looks up to see one of the Royal Guard, though not the Constable, accompanied by an escort of two more guards, and the Duke of Richmond.

"What is it?" he asks, nervously. What the hell is Fitzroy doing here?

"You are arrested, my Lord." The Guard continues, "For the murder of five women in the most brutal of circumstances."

"What?" Rich stares, in horror, "What?" and then he realises - Fitzroy saw his reaction to the chain…he knows that Rich has discovered him…and he has acted first…

The two additional guards take hold of his arms, while their commander turns to Fitzroy, "The barge is ready, your Grace."

"It's Fitzroy!" Rich suddenly cries out, "I have done nothing! It's Fitzroy! He killed them! He did it! Not I! Oh dear Christ, it's Fitzroy! I would not have killed them! I did not! I could not have killed my Kat! I could not!" Desperate, he wrenches at the grip of the guards upon his arms, "Listen to me! For God's sake! Listen! I am not the killer! I am not! It was Fitzroy! _Fitzroy!_ "

The gardeners' heads rise, but quickly go back down again, and they hastily take up their tools to depart. There is no one to help him. Not a soul.

Fitzroy regards him coldly, "Even now, he denies his crime. Perhaps, for the sake of the peace, you might wish to gag him."

Rich continues to fight them, even as they set irons upon his wrists, and, in compliance with Fitzroy's suggestion, one of the guards fetches out a kerchief and gags him. Now he cannot even make people understand as he tries - still tries - to tell all about him that Fitzroy was the killer…not him. Fighting them desperately, Rich is dragged from the garden towards the Privy Stairs, where a barge awaits.

"And so," Fitzroy says, calmly, "To the Tower."


	19. Burglary as a Last Resort

**A/N:** thanks for your review, Starfire201 - yes, they're in quite a fix now, aren't they? Fitzroy's onto them, so what's to be done?

P.S. - For those awaiting the arrival of Suffolk into this tale, your forbearance shall shortly be rewarded...

* * *

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 _Burglary as a Last Resort_

Cromwell sets the abandoned papers upon Rich's desk, and wonders if his friend truly intends to leave Court, or shall return at some point in the next hour or so and quietly apologise. He shall do nothing until he knows one way or the other. Rich has few friends, and thus it is unlikely that anyone other than the King shall miss him - and even in the King's case, that would merely be thanks to having no one to do Rich's work until a replacement is appointed.

If only that chain could be enough; but it is not. With the lack of anything else that they can find, it is the coffer now or nothing. With no means of searching Fitzroy's apartments, however, that means that it is - effectively - nothing. They are stymied by their inability to reach the one piece of evidence that might grant them all that they need to bring this hideous matter to an end.

He is not sure when he first notices the muttering at the other end of the offices, as the Clerks are gathering, sharing some spoken information and moving on, their expressions shocked. Knowing that they shall scatter, and thus grant him nothing, Cromwell stays where he is, and watches surreptitiously for the news to spread to one of the boys that is most likely to tell him what he needs to know later on.

Matters are, however, unexpectedly expedited by Wriothesley, who comes into the offices and finds himself in the midst of a gaggle of Clerks, who quickly scatter, but for one - who is not quick enough and is grasped by the ear.

"What is so exciting that you have abandoned your work to discuss it?" he asks, marching the youth through the offices to Cromwell's desk.

"Something that Daniel overheard, my Lord," the boy says, grimacing at the pain, "The Chancellor, Mr Rich - arrested for killing those women."

"Mr Rich?" Cromwell asks, sharply, "Arrested - by whom?"

"Someone said it was the Duke of Richmond, my Lord." The boy adds, then utters a sharp squeal as Wriothesley twists his ear, "It's the truth, my Lord! That is what was said!"

"Let him be, Mr Wriothesley." Cromwell says, calmly, "I shall make some enquiries. It seems most odd to me - and I do not need to be without Mr Rich at his desk."

Once out of the offices, however, Cromwell is no longer calm. It is clear what has happened - crystal clear. When Rich noticed the chain about Fitzroy's neck, the youth saw him - and realised what he was thinking. Rich would have been utterly incapable of keeping his expression neutral at the sight of that. And now he is in Fitzroy's hands…

And how long shall it be before he, Cromwell, joins him? They have been investigating this together - and their about face from enmity to friendship has hardly been missed. What does it matter that one of the victims was Rich's mistress?

None see him as he enters the investigation room and locks himself in. With luck, people shall think he has gone to ground. It is, after all, not going to be long before he is accosted. Not as an accomplice - that is for certain - but almost certainly as the master of the plan: none would believe that Rich would be the one in charge.

He sits at the desk, but does not light a candle, instead letting the late afternoon dimness conceal him in its growing grip. Fitzroy has Rich - and God knows what shall happen to him now. If the Duke has not yet understood the depth of the investigation against him, then how long before he does? Would Rich tell him? Not at first - but he knows that Rich is not strong, and Fitzroy shall not care one jot that he is a Privy Councillor. If he wants to use coercion, then he shall. That said, he may know already…

"Damn you. Damn you to hell, Fitzroy." He says, aloud, "God help me - if you are to destroy me, then I shall take you with me. If you are throwing the law aside to do what you want, then so shall I."

He has one hope. One: the coffer. If he can find that, and it has the degree of evidence that he has been seeking, then he might yet salvage this disaster and save all. But he must find it…

He must, therefore, break into Fitzroy's apartments.

* * *

Most of the Court are gravitating towards the Hall, where supper shall be served in the next hour or so. Thus, the corridors are largely empty. His eyes watchful, Cromwell makes his way through the darkening passages with care. He has abandoned his fine simarre, and his magnificent - and highly distinctive - Collar of Esses; hoping that the encroaching dimness shall hide the brocading of his doublet, and give the impression that he is another of the many anonymous servants that make their way between the apartments of the high-born.

He knows where Fitzroy is lodged - in the apartments reserved for the Prince of Wales, which had once been Mary's domain. His one hope, since Fitzroy is gone, is that the retinue shall also not be present, for if they are - then all is lost, and he can do nothing more than flee the palace, and thus Rich shall almost certainly die.

 _I cannot…_ will _not let that happen_.

With Fitzroy absent, the guards that have been set at his door are standing off to the side, engrossed in a game of dice. While he would, ordinarily, be furious with them for such dereliction of duty, today he would more willingly recommend them for a commendation - so helpful is their behaviour to his needs.

Entering the apartments is a simple matter, and then he stops. If Fitzroy's retinue are not here, then they are almost certainly with him. And if they are…

"God, oh my God…I beg you, keep him safe…" Cromwell whispers aloud, for in that single moment, he knows now that, no matter what happens, Rich's situation has become horribly bleak.

If that is so, then he must be quick - and he must, _must_ , find that damned coffer. Where might it be? _He always has it with him. He cannot possibly have taken it to the Tower. It must still be here…where…where?_

Then he remembers: Gresham was obliged to hide in a closet to avoid Fitzroy's mortifications - in the bedchamber. It must be there. Caution cast aside, Cromwell throws open doors to find the room he seeks, and comes across the room he needs at he third he tries.

The room is large, well carpeted and richly furnished with the finest pieces that money can buy. Given the prior occupant, many of the items seem more attuned to a female occupant in terms of decoration, but they look most lavish, and that is more than suitable for a man wedded to such finery.

As his eyes cast about, Cromwell notices the small prie dieu, set aside behind a screen. It faces a small table upon which sit two candlesticks - each with a fresh candle set ready, and a remarkably ornate crucifix - Popish items that he is so keen to overturn. He scowls, then shakes himself. Now is not the time for petty prejudices. His life could be at stake, and Rich's most certainly.

There are various sideboards, cupboards and closets about the room, presumably to contain the large numbers of suits of clothing that Fitzroy seems to have accumulated. Abandoning all care in his haste, Cromwell snatches at handles, wrenching open doors, yanking out drawers, turning out dressers. _It has to be here…it must be…_

But it is not - or if it is, it has been hidden. Cursing sulphurously, Cromwell burrows into a large closet that contains furs for the coming winter. The coffer is not immediately visible, but instead he finds a large travelling box that seems rather well used given that there are no scratch marks to show that it has been shifted recently…

"Please be in there." He begs, silently, "God, please let it be in there…"

And he stops dead. An ebony box - large enough to hold papers, or possibly relics. Carved with religious icons and scenes.

He has found it. He has it…

Trembling, Cromwell bends and lifts the item from its hiding place. As Gresham and Mount told, it is secured with a padlock of intriguing design - one with a set of four dials. Each has a sequence of numbers upon it, and he has no idea whether the lock has been set or not. Whatever is in it, it is something that Fitzroy most certainly does not want to be found.

If that is so, then the contents can hardly be innocent - can they?

Setting the coffer upon Fitzroy's bed, Cromwell regards it. Much as he would enjoy the intellectual challenge of attempting to unfasten the padlock, he has not the time. Rich has not the time. Such a pity, too - for it is an antique.

His eyes vicious, Cromwell looks about for something to prise the padlock away - but finds only the heavy, gold candlesticks. With no other option, he sets the coffer on the floor, plucks the candle from the right hand stick, and begins to pound its base against the body of the lock, in the hopes of forcibly separating it from the shank.

It feels as though it shall take forever, and bring the entire palace into the room, so much noise does he make - but, at last, after he has long lost count of the strikes, the shank snaps from the body, and the lock can be removed.

"What are you hiding, then?" Cromwell mutters, as he lifts the lid.

Papers. Lots of papers…all of them in Fitzroy's rather angular, spiky hand. He has seen it enough times to know it.

 _She screamed. Screamed lots of times…I stuck her in the belly…she screamed more and more…_

Cromwell stares at the words, his eyes widening. Not this - God above…he has it. The confession he needs. It is a full _confession_ …but to read this? God help him, it is appalling - for it gets worse and worse as the words snake onwards down the page. Brutality he never thought a man could bring upon any other being, man, woman or child…

Trembling, he lifts the paper, only for it to droop, the top right corner refusing to lift. Bemused, he reaches in to take it, and finds a small vial attached. The right corner of the pile is curled upwards, and he realises that each paper is treated the same, a small glass vial attached to the right corner…

Squinting at the small receptacle, Cromwell eyes the brown, powdery substance within. He has been a soldier: he knows desiccated blood when he sees it. Christ above - Fitzroy has not taken merely jewels - he has taken a sample of blood, too…

Painfully, he continues to read, taking in the horror and wishing that he could not. He wants to put it down - but he must know.

The woman, it seems, was a local farmer's wife - taken from her home while her husband was away in the fields. She was brutally ravished, and then slaughtered, at Collyweston - just a day before Fitzroy commenced his journey back to Placentia. It is, then, up to date…

Should he read it? Should he?

His hands shaking, Cromwell burrows into the coffer. He does not have to go far.

 _Her voice was fearful, but she was braver than the others. It must be because of her ugly pocks. She clasped at me, as they do, but much tighter - by the bottom of my doublet. As I went into her she said: I love you Richie. I love you more than the world. I will always love you. Never forget me. And then her blood was drained._

"Oh Christ." Cromwell moans, faintly, and drops the paper back. Even at the last, Kat thought only of the man she loved. Perhaps she kept her thoughts upon him to help her endure that which was to come. He fights with himself not to shed tears: that brave, _brave_ woman. The others might not have known what was to happen to them - but she did - and still she thought only of Richard, and did all that she could to help them…

It goes on, and on and on. Page after page of horrors that he never could have imagined. It is not just the five women at Court - they were part of a long cavalcade of violence and savagery that began barely a few months after the Duke was married.

It is always the same - each woman is selected at random. He had thought that it was because the women at court were engaged in activities that Fitzroy found immoral - but perhaps not? Perhaps that was merely incidental to the fact that they were - as women - fundamentally corrupted and in need of, in his terms at least, cleansing?

The papers do not detail how he comes upon the women, nor how he departs once they are dead; that still remains a mystery. From the papers, however, it is clear that Fitzroy knows he must not permit his victims in the Palaces to make too much noise, so he bleeds them out - carrying out his vile acts as they lose consciousness. Those who are held in his house are far less fortunate - for they remain awake until he begins the evisceration and finally ends their torment. At least, he supposes, Kat did not have to suffer that.

Cromwell pauses and looks around the chamber for some form of receptacle, for he is convinced that he shall vomit. God above…dear God above…what is this man? Why? Why has he done this? Why is he so utterly depraved? Is it because he was married, or did it happen anyway - with the marriage being merely coincidental?

Trembling, sweat upon his brow, he concentrates for a few minutes on simply breathing in and out, until the urge to heave out the contents of his stomach has passed. No matter what he has done, no matter what he has seen in his life - and he has seen the bloodiest of deaths - there is nothing he has ever encountered that could come close to this in its horror. Those men who break down the walls of a besieged city and rampage within it are at least driven by bloodlust that has risen while they have thought themselves doomed to die in the vanguard - but this…this was planned, calculated… _celebrated_ …

Finally, he forces himself to view the end of the paper that relates to Louise Knotte. And there it is - the proof that they need that the items were not gifts from lovers.

 _And my gain from her was an emerald pin that held her hood._

He knows what he shall find on the paper relating to Kat.

 _And my gain from her was a black pearl set in gold._

* * *

Cromwell sits on the side of Fitzroy's bed. The papers are back in the coffer, and he wants never to see them again - but there is only one thing he can do now. He must take them to the King - and quickly. Fitzroy might prefer to kill women, but he has not drawn the line in taking the lives of men where necessary. Has he not whipped two servants to death?

There is, however, one thing that he knows he cannot do. He must never, _ever_ , permit Rich to see the paper relating to Kat.

Suddenly feeling very tired, he sets the lid back onto the coffer, and rises from the bed to lift it - but stops.

 _Footsteps._

His eyes determined, Cromwell turns to face the door; but it is not a member of Fitzroy's retinue, nor his servants.

"Your Grace." He says, quietly, as Charles Brandon stands in the doorway, his expression hard. Behind the Duke, four guards are waiting. It is to be an arrest, then. Damn - he must have been seen entering the apartments after all.

"My Lord Cromwell." Brandon responds, "I am sent to arrest you for the murder of five women…"

"On what evidence?" Cromwell interrupts.

"I am sent," he resumes, more firmly, "to arrest you for the murder of five women: Miss Anne Hamme, Miss Louise Knotte, Miss Sarah Culver, Miss Elizabeth Milton and Miss Kathryn Silverton. You are to be conveyed to the Tower."

"On what evidence?" Cromwell repeats, equally firmly.

"I am sent by the King." Brandon advises, as though this explains all.

"You have not answered my question, your Grace."

"His Grace, the Duke of Richmond, has been undertaking investigations into the recent murders at court. He has found that, under the pretence of acting as the investigators into these crimes, you, with Sir Richard Rich as your accomplice, have been the perpetrator throughout."

"On what evidence?" Cromwell says, speaking each word slowly, and deliberately. He knows that there is none - but he also knows that, for the King, Fitzroy's word is evidence enough, "He has acted first, then."

Brandon looks at him, bemused, "Who has acted first?"

"Fitzroy. He knew that we had discovered him, and acted first to remove us and save himself." Despite everything, Cromwell remains absolutely calm. Panicking shall not help him now. He must keep his focus - to save himself, and then to save Rich.

"That is your word. I have those of his Grace, the Duke of Richmond, and his Majesty the King."

"I have irrefutable proof to the contrary." Cromwell retorts, "It is in this room, and it shows clearly who has really committed these crimes."

"Proof that you claim exists - but that has been found in this room by you, with no witnesses other than a chambermaid who saw you enter these chambers in a secretive fashion."

"You are my witness."

"Enough. You are under arrest." He turns to the four guards, "Seize him."

The guards surround Cromwell, and two of them take him by his arms, "Damn you, Charles Brandon! Do you not care for those who have died? Do you think there are but five? There are others; _many_ others! At least fifty! He has been killing for a year or more - it was only here that he was kept down to just those who died in the palaces! It's in the coffer! Do you _want_ to be the man who allowed a lunatic free rein to destroy England? Read the papers in that damned, bloody coffer, you stupid, fucking idiot!"

It is not the protest that halts the Duke, but the abandonment of formality. Cromwell is, after all, the soul of formality to those of higher standing than he, but to refer to him by name, and then to hurl so many profanities at him? He stares at Cromwell. Despite his deep dislike of the man, there is no mistaking the sincerity in his face; or the desperation that would drive him to be so insulting to a man of higher station. He is not such a fool as to do that without reason.

Frowning, cautious, Brandon reaches down and lifts the lid of the coffer. Reaching in, he lifts the first of the many papers within, and begins to read the horrible tale of an innocent farmer's wife, taken from her home into a living hell…

Still held by the guards, Cromwell watches as Brandon's expression begins to change from annoyance to horror. He reaches in for another paper, and then another, growing more and more appalled with each page that he reads.

"We knew of the coffer, your Grace." Cromwell says, quietly, still held by the guards, "We did not know what was in it, but we thought it might be the key to all. I could not have imagined that it could contain what you are reading."

"You could have planted this." Brandon offers, though only half-heartedly.

"Rich was arrested barely two hours ago. How could I possibly have accumulated and planted this in such a time? Do you not know Fitzroy's writing? It is hardly nondescript."

"Show me what else you have."

"Fitzroy has Rich, your Grace. Time is of the essence."

"Perhaps so, but if we are to save him, we must gain the confidence of the King. Show me what else you have." He makes a small gesture, and the Guards release their grip.

* * *

The candles flicker in the investigation room, casting strange shadows across the walls - and across Brandon's face as he reads the papers that Rich has so carefully transcribed. The post-mortem reports, the statements; all of it, including those taken from Gresham and Mount.

"It was from they that we discovered the existence of the coffer." Cromwell says, quietly, "When I heard of Rich's arrest, I knew we had but one opportunity to save ourselves. I had to find it."

"May God have mercy upon us…" Brandon whispers, genuflecting, "The King believed Fitzroy without asking for a shred of evidence - all he was required to do was give a name. He spoke only of Sir Richard - but the King realised that you and he have been working together for many months. If one was involved, then it was, in his mind, inevitable that the other was, also."

"Fitzroy had no evidence upon which to base his accusation, your Grace." Cromwell urges, "I, on the other hand, _do_. If we do not act quickly, then Rich shall almost certainly die - and as cruelly as his mistress did. Fitzroy has whipped servants to death for the most trivial of offences - what on earth might he do if he has access to the instruments in the Tower?"

Brandon stares at him, appalled.

"Help me, your Grace. I cannot bring this to the King alone, for I have no doubt that he shall refuse to believe me. Stand with me - for you are his greatest friend. If we are to destroy all that he has ever believed about his beloved son, then he should have you at his side to share that burden. I cannot do this alone."

They stand opposite one another, for what seems like an eternity, their enmity fighting with the need to save a life, and prevent a madman from gaining a place in the English Succession.

"If Fitzroy can do this while still an illegitimate son - then imagine what he might do once he is legitimised, and in reach of the Crown." Cromwell adds, a little desperately, "Are you not as concerned for the safety of the other royal children as you appeared to be when last I spoke to you? For the love of God - what is to stop him taking steps to claim the Crown for himself once he is declared to be of the Blood? I once thought this was merely to save the lives of the women of the Court - but now, I cannot help but wonder if all of England is at stake."

"Do you think he has planned this?" Brandon asks.

"No, not to the degree that he has foreseen all and taken account of it to reach a predetermined aim - but he has been made to consider himself invincible, beloved and even chosen by God. If he believes that, then what is to stop him believing that God has chosen him to rule this realm? It is more than mere murders now - for if he can kill so casually, where might he stop? He has one of the Privy Councillors at his mercy - would that give him a taste for winnowing his way through those of us who might stop him on legal or political grounds? It has become far greater than I ever thought might happen - and it might seem like a mad fantasy. Perhaps it is; though I do not think that to be so. Not now."

Brandon's face falls, and he sighs.

"Nor do I."


	20. A Comparison of Commandments

**A/N:** My goodness! Thank you for your comments; I'm so pleased that you're on the edge of your collective seats - things are singularly ratcheting up, are they not?

The stakes are high - but what's Fitzroy up to while Brandon and Cromwell are realising just how far this could go? Read on to find out...

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY

 _A Comparison of Commandments_

The stark bulk of the Tower looms over the boats and barges that ply the waters of the Thames. Amidst them, one barge has travelled the three long hours from Placentia, while those aboard laugh and jest. All but one.

Sitting on a bench, chained and gagged, Rich huddles, partly from the cold, for he has no cloak, and partly from misery. Fitzroy exchanged the royal guard at the Privy Stairs for that band of four new knights in his retinue; and they have spent the entire journey joking and discussing the crimes of which he has been accused, secure from the ears of the oarsmen by the closed doors of the cabin. He recalls their names; Herbert, Colling, Stacke and Bellman - but their cruel faces seem almost interchangeable, and he cannot for the life of him tell which is which.

"And what of that fulsome little wench from the wayside inn?" One of them asks, grinning horribly, "I thought her to be most uncommonly pretty."

"Not when you'd finished with her, right, my Lord?" another smirks, his voice thick with innuendo. Sitting amongst them, Fitzroy snorts, cruelly.

"No indeed. Vile little whore - at least she would never corrupt another man with that slick little countenance."

Rich wants to scream at them, demand to know why they consider it acceptable to do what they are doing - but the gag is thick in his mouth, and he cannot get words past it. He tried when they were pulling him to the Privy Stairs - and all that came out was muffled grunts that caused them much amusement. He cannot bring himself to try again: they would just laugh all the more.

Another of the men gets up, "And then there was that one with the pocks."

Rich's eyes widen…God, not Kat…please not her…

Grinning horribly, he begins to thrust his pelvis back and forth, an unmistakable mime, " _I love you Richie! I love you_! Wonder who that fucker was."

Rich screws his eyes tight shut. He knows full well who that fucker was. Tears drain into the thick cloth of the gag. Not his Kat…dear God, even as she was dying, she still thought only of him…

 _I must not weep. I must not give them the satisfaction of knowing who Kat loved…_

"And we are free to continue our work." Fitzroy adds, brightly, "For my beloved father, God rot him, believes me to have found the man who killed the five Palace whores. He was sending his idiot friend Brandon in search of the Crow Cromwell when I was leaving. I did not even need to ask - once he is out of the way, then all is mine."

"All?" another of the four asks, "Could you really take the Crown?"

"God yes. Why not? I shall be legitimate in days. His fat Majesty is such a ball of lard that he might drop dead any day - or his stinking, befouled legs might poison him into his grave. If he does, and there is no boy from the Queen in time, I shall lead the succession. Perhaps a little help courtesy of his ravening appetite, even?"

For a moment, the four retainers fall silent, and Rich wonders if Fitzroy has shocked them to the point that they might deny him.

"What of his taster?" One asks, sounding intrigued rather than repulsed, "How could you evade discovery?" It seems that they are not shocked, then.

"Something slow, but effective; hemlock for choice - by the time the taster was sickening, the old man would have winnowed his way through the entire remove and there would be no return from the track to hell. It would be a simple matter to repudiate the little slut and claim the brat to be that of another Courtier, and hold him responsible for all. You, perhaps?" he laughs as he leans over and ruffles Rich's hair, insultingly, "And she goes to the block. Brat in the belly or no. God above, I am chosen - has he not said so? If I am chosen, then I shall take it for myself and you shall all be Dukes!"

The men cheer, delightedly. If they had ale pots, Rich is convinced they would smash them together.

 _God help us…God help me…Oh dear God help me…_

Fighting to keep his tears back, Rich keeps his eyes closed. The Tower is above them now. He is not blind to his plight: Fitzroy has brought him here to kill him, and he has no wish to see the place in which he is to die.

* * *

"Where is the Constable?" Fitzroy demands, loudly, almost drunkenly, "Fetch him to me! Fetch him now!"

He mounts the steps from the water gate, while the four men behind him bundle Rich out of the barge and drag him up in the Duke's wake, still chained; still gagged.

The warders stare at Fitzroy in bemusement, "My Lord?" One of them ventures, bemused that someone so highly placed would be escorting a prisoner.

"Do I have to have you flogged at your post, you knave? Fetch the Constable - fetch him _now!_ "

They do not need to be told a third time. One bows hastily, and flees through the outer ward to the gate that shall admit him into the main fortress.

As they wait, Fitzroy remains silent, but his eyes flit about wildly, and he fidgets - as though he wishes to be anywhere but where he is. Rich remembers that behaviour from the Midnight Mass.

 _Perhaps, then, he had acted already to kill - and was in a maddened state because of it. Or maybe he was desirous to do so - and could not, for he was in the Mass._

Cromwell's words surface in his memory, and his knees almost give beneath him. Fitzroy was like this on the night that Louise Knotte died. Is he beginning to go into that same maddened state again? _No…God, please no…not with me…not with me…_

He is not strong. He thought that he could bear death if it would reunite him with Kat - but he cannot…not at the hands of this man. Not by whatever means he intends to use. Despite his gag, Rich utters a frantic plea for his life, but it comes out in nothing more than hideous mumblings.

Fitzroy turns, and looks into Rich's wide, terrified eyes. He says nothing; but merely smiles.

The Constable is hastening out from the inner ward to the newly arrived party, his expression concerned, for he was not expecting prisoners tonight, "Forgive me my Lord, I was at supper." He says, bowing deeply. Then he looks up, and realises who has come, "Your Grace?"

"I bring a prisoner, Mr Kingston." Fitzroy says, boredly, "Give me your keys."

Rich stares desperately at the Constable. This man is his last hope of salvation: his only chance to live. If Cromwell is also arrested, there shall be no other help for him. _For God's sake - tell them to remove the gag…please, please, please…_

"I was not expecting prisoners this evening, your Grace." Kingston tries again, nervously. The men with the Duke are not palace guards, and the man in their grasp is a highly placed courtier - a member of the Privy Council, no less. And, more importantly, he is terrified. Most of those who come here are in such a state - but it seems to him that this man is fearful not so much of the Tower itself, but of the captors who have brought him here.

"That may be, Mr Kingston. I require your keys."

"I must protest, your Grace." Kingston says, "the Tower is in my charge, and I report only to the King and the highest officers of the Land - the Lord Chancellor and the Lord Privy Seal. It is only they who could demand the keys to this fortress. I would fail in my duty to my King if I granted them to any other."

 _Oh, thank Christ…he means to help me…_ Rich sags, gratefully.

"The bill to grant my legitimacy is passed, Mr Kingston. And Royal Assent shall be granted within a day. Thus I shall become Duke of York, and one of the highest officers of the land. _Give me the keys_."

"Your Grace," Kingston protests again, "I cannot do so."

"Give them to me, or I shall have them taken from your corpse. Do not think I shall not order your death, Constable. I am the son of the King, and I have his absolute confidence and love. If you do not comply with my demands, he shall grant my request that you lay your own head upon the block at Tower Hill. Give me the fucking keys."

Kingston stares at them helplessly. He is known for his scruples, his humanity and his decency - and he is being asked to act in a manner that is - at the very least - highly dubious. Fitzroy is not acting legally; that much is clear, but if he refuses, then he shall be dead, and who shall protest to the King then?

Wordlessly, but his expression speaking for him, he retrieves the bunch of keys that are largely his badge of office, and hands them to Fitzroy. Behind the Duke, Rich moans and his legs give way beneath him. The two men hold him grapple with his arms and prevent him from falling to the cobbles, while a third leans in and slaps him back to consciousness.

"You do not follow us." Fitzroy hisses at Kingston, "Not you or any of your guards. If any do, they shall die."

The Constable stares at him, "Your _Grace!_ " he says, horrified. What on earth are they planning to do to the man in their clutches?

He has, however, no choice but to watch as Rich is marched away into the inner ward. Kingston does not know where they are taking the Privy Councillor, but he can make a highly educated guess. Furious, he turns to one of his guards, "Prepare a barge. I must send word to the King."

In the inner ward, the great Conqueror's Keep rises above them, while the main palace buildings are nearby. Fitzroy, however, has another destination, and they move past the finer buildings, towards those of a far ruder aspect.

Rich has not been here in months, and has never wanted to come back. Not after those horrible interrogations. A man of his status should, all things being equal, be lodged in one of the towers of the ward, but their route is familiar for reasons he cannot bring himself to recall. They are going to those places where those of lesser state are held. The places that he remembers with dread. This is where they came to interrogate Mark Smeaton - and now it is to hold him.

* * *

The cell is empty, but for a wooden stool in the middle of it and straw scattered across the flags of the floor. There are chains set across the ceiling, the ends of which drape downwards, but otherwise the room is bare.

Forcibly seated, Rich looks up at the men who have taken him prisoner, as one of them steps behind him and finally removes the gag.

"You are a vile sinner." Fitzroy says, softly, "For you have broken all manner of God's Commandments, have you not? You have killed. You have committed adultery and you have borne false witness. All mortal sins, my Lord. All of them."

Rich does not reply. He wants to - but the words will not come.

"All men are born in sin. For woman created sin and infected men with it. Perhaps you are not to blame - for your mistresses corrupted you, did they not? If you atone, you may yet still be redeemed."

He circles Rich a few times, and then stops dead in front of him, " _De profundis clamavi ad te Domine…_ " he glares at Rich, who looks up at him, "What am I saying to you?"

He struggles to reply, for his mouth is dry; but forces himself to speak, "Out of the deep call I unto the Lord."

"Finish it!" Fitzroy shouts, and slaps him across the face.

"Out of the deep call I unto the Lord, Lord hear my voice…Oh, let thine ears consider well, the voice of my complaint…" he stops, then tries again,"…If thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark…to mark what is done…I cannot remember any more…"

"That is because you are naught but a foul sinner! You have no desire to atone, no wish for redemption! You revel in your mortal sin! You have killed! Fornicated! Borne false witness!"

"I have _not_ killed!" Rich cries back, "I have never once ended a life by my hand!"

Fitzroy leans in, sharply, and grabs his shoulders, "Not by your hand - but by the hand of others! Do you think that you are absolved thanks to the death being by another's means? Fisher! More! Boleyn! All of them through your actions! It was through your lies and perjury that they died!"

"And what of you?" Rich retorts, "If I am so great a sinner, then what of you? What of those who have died at your hand? Five women are dead! And what crime did they commit? What harm did they do you? None!"

Fitzroy's eyes grow deadly, his pupils narrowing to pinpoints, "Five? You think that they are all?"

Rich stares at Fitzroy, whose expression has changed again - almost in an instant - the pupils are wide again, his expression beatific, "If I have cleansed but five, then I have failed them. No, there are far more who were rendered fit for Heaven through my grace."

 _He has gone mad…he is insane…_ Rich pulls back, as much as he can without falling from the stool.

"Do you not understand?" Fitzroy continues, rising to his feet again, "I am not of mortal origin, and thus I am not subject to the requirements of the Commandments, for they were placed upon men, not those of us who come from God. I cannot be a mortal man, for I am not the son of a whore. Are not all women whores? Thus I can be only from Heaven. And so I cleanse women of that which makes them corrupted. For if they are not cleansed, then they are not redeemed - for with the Lord, there is plenteous redemption…"

"How do you cleanse them?" Rich asks. He knows how - but if anyone else can hear this, then perhaps there shall be a confession that might remain after Fitzroy has killed him…

"I excise their womb." Fitzroy says, calmly, "For that is the source of all female corruption. It is an organ that they have, but that we do not - for we are clean, but they are corrupt. If that is removed, then they are cleansed - and fit for heaven."

"And what of the violence you visit upon them?" Rich demands, rather more boldly, "Ripping out their insides? Slashing their faces?"

"All must atone for their sins, before they can be redeemed." Fitzroy seems quite astonished that Rich should ask such a stupid question when the answer is so obvious. He turns, and leans in again, "You are a vile sinner. Let me prove to you that I am not, for I remember what eludes you."

Rich shrinks from him again, for his eyes are still hideous, "How shall you do that?"

"By speaking those words that you cannot remember." He rests his hands upon Rich's shoulders again, "Out of the deep call I unto the Lord. Lord, hear my voice. Oh let Thine ears consider well the voice of my complaint. If Thou Lord wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss, O Lord who may abide it?"

He rises again, "But there is mercy with Thee. That Thou mayest be feared. I look for the Lord. My soul doth wait for Him, and in His word is my trust. My soul doth patiently abide the Lord from the one morning to the other. Let Israel trust in the Lord, for with the Lord, there is mercy and plenteous redemption. And He shall redeem Israel from all his sins."

"That is a private matter between the Almighty and the soul." Rich demands, "Through the intercession of a priest. In what way do you have the right to claim to redeem any man?"

Fitzroy regards him, "For I am more than a man."

"Stop this. Let me go - I shall speak to the King on your behalf - this does not have to continue. I am a Privy Councillor…"

"You are a sinner." Fitzroy says, viciously, and then leans in again, his expression beatific once more - the sudden changes of mood as frightening as his words, "And there is still the issue of your crimes. Your mortal sins. Thus you must confess, and accept punishment in atonement for them."

"Do not dare to harm me." Rich tries again, though his words lack conviction, "I am a Privy Councillor…"

"And what is that to the Almighty?"

"I…" Rich cannot answer.

Yet again, Fitzroy stands back, "You must confess. Thus you shall speak the Confiteor until you are cleansed, and accept punishment for your crimes."

 _I heard a story of one servant being whipped to death with a leather strap while he was hung by his wrists from the ceiling and forced to recite the Confiteor over and over again. When he fainted, they revived him with cold water so that they could continue - and they kept on until there was no breath left in his body._

The words of Gresham rise in Rich's mind, and he stares at Fitzroy in horror. Is this what he intends to do? The youth's eyes are flitting back and forth…he is fidgeting…dear God…what he intending to do?

His face absolutely calm, Fitzroy makes a single gesture. His retainers close in upon Rich, and he screams.


	21. Confiteor Deo

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

 _Confiteor Deo_

Brandon continues to stare at the papers on the wall, though he seems not to see them, "What has happened to him?" he murmurs, "He was such a sweet boy…"

"That, I know not, your Grace," Cromwell says, urgently, "but - whatever it was, it cannot have been the healthiest of upbringings for a child - revered by his father, but reviled by others for being a bastard. Some are able to ignore their origins, but perhaps he could not. His Majesty has showered him with love, gifts and more - but he has been back and forth from Court as much as his sisters. And now he is threatened with a rival?"

"You consider him to be insane, then?" Brandon accuses.

"Not entirely, your Grace; no. There are times when he is lucid; but he seems capable of moving from that state to another that is entirely inhuman. How, I cannot say, nor is it possible to see into his mind and know why. I think that, when he is mad, he is entirely mad - but when he is not, he is entirely not. How he passes from madness to sanity, why he does so, and why it happens at such speed…that I cannot know. But I do know that he seems most intent upon redemption, for I am given to understand that he recites the _Confiteor_ frequently, and also the one hundred and thirtieth psalm. Perhaps, when he is lucid, he believes that his acts of mortification cleanse him entirely of any sin associated with his actions - and thus feels no discomfort in continuing them when his madness returns, for we are taught that all sin that is confessed and for which we repent is forgiven, are we not? It may be that he views the imposition of pain as repentance, and thus those who endure it receive redemption."

"Or perhaps he is possessed by a demon."

Cromwell shakes his head, "That would be a simple explanation, would it not, your Grace? But I think it not to be so. There is much that we do not know, and to ascribe such things to demons seems convenient. If a demon were compelling him to do this, then why does he revel in it afterwards, even though he performs endless acts of supposed repentance and mortification of the flesh? Why keep these papers, and the trophies, and the blood? If a demon were the cause, would he not do all that he can to destroy all signs that it controls him at times - or flee from people in order to protect them from what the demon causes him to become? No, the only darkness in him is that which he has created in his own mind - and it has made him the most dangerous man in England." He turns to Brandon, his expression as urgent as his voice, "And he has Sir Richard in his grasp."

"Then we must tell his Majesty." Brandon says, quietly, "If we do not do so before we act, then we are helpless should we miscarry. He must know - and know now."

"Your Grace…"

"I appreciate your fears, and I share them. No matter what happens, we must ensure that this evidence is in the hands of the King before we depart. Should Fitzroy escape us, his word shall bring us all down - and if Sir Richard dies, then so shall we."

"I do not consider Sir Richard to be expendable, your Grace." Cromwell says, his eyes angry, "I am not willing to abandon him and consider his loss to be no more than an acceptable misadventure."

"It is not my wish either, my Lord." Brandon glares at him, furious at such a suggestion, "But the longer we argue, the longer Fitzroy has to harm him." Snatching up the coffer, he turns to the door, "Let us away. If we are to save Sir Richard, then we must set these papers before the King."

* * *

Cromwell is easily able to keep up with Brandon's swift stride, and the two hasten through the corridors to the Presence Chamber, where his Majesty is still holding court, "If it were possible to dispatch you with a squad of guards to apprehend Fitzroy, then I would do so - but the King shall have questions that I cannot answer - thus you must come with me."

"Then send the guards." Cromwell counters, at once.

"Against a Royal Duke? No order but that of the King shall overrule him - and, if he is as you say he is, even that might not be enough. There is no choice. We _must_ set these papers before the King prior to any act against Fitzroy. Without his acceptance, and agreement, we are helpless." His expression is sympathetic, "If it were possible to do so, then I would grow wings and fly to the Tower to apprehend the youth in a heartbeat - but until the King's love is dulled, you and I know as well any that Fitzroy is beyond any man's power to stop."

Cromwell's expression - unusually unguarded - betrays his fears, but he does not reply. Instead, his mind races: how long would it take for a man to be whipped to death? Would Fitzroy do that at all, given his access to all of the instruments in the Tower? Is Rich upon the rack? _What if…what if…what if…_

The music in the Presence Chamber is soothing, and conversation is quiet; sufficiently so for their entrance to be thoroughly marked, and attract the immediate attention of the King.

"What have you done, Charles? Why is that bloody murderer in my presence?"

His words spark an extraordinary response, as the courtiers in the room seem to pull away from the arrivals like a film of grease separates under a drop of soap. They stare at Cromwell, who still lacks his simarre and chain of office, and at Brandon, whose expression is sad - yet urgent - and who carries an ebony box.

"I beg your indulgence, your Majesty - but it is imperative that we speak with you in private; immediately. I shall bring the guards with me, thus you may be assured that there is no risk to any within these walls."

"I gave you orders, Charles! Get that vile killer to the Tower with his filthy accomplice! Must I order my boy to do your work for you?"

"His Grace has not returned from the Tower, Majesty." Brandon says, quietly, "It is for that reason that I plead with you for a private audience."

"Are you suggesting that that bloody-handed Rich has harmed him?" Henry scoffs.

"No, Majesty." Brandon answers, "Quite the opposite. I beg you, I must speak with you in private, and with my Lord Cromwell. A life is at stake; we cannot tarry."

"Then tell me here." Henry snaps.

"Majesty!" Brandon protests, "I can only plead with you - once you have heard what I must tell you, I assure you that you shall be most glad that you agreed to hear me in private."

Then, at last, Henry nods, "Have it your way, Brandon." He rises to his feet, slowly and painfully, then hobbles down the steps from his throne and leads them through to the Privy Chamber beyond.

Once inside, he turns with astonishing swiftness, and reaches out to grasp the front of Brandon's doublet, "How _dare_ you speak to me so, Charles!" He shouts, "Contradicting me in public!"

"I beg your pardon, Majesty," Brandon says, bowing, "but I had no choice - a life is in peril, and a grievous wrong must be halted in its tracks. There is a dreadful truth that you must learn - that I myself learned but half an hour ago - and I wish it could be any other than that which it is."

Glaring at his friend, the King sits, "Tell on."

Brandon and Cromwell exchange an uncomfortable glance, "Forgive me, Majesty - but…your son, the Duke of Richmond, is not the youth that we all hoped him to be. He is not the very model of Majesty - instead he is a dangerous madman. It is he who killed the five women at Court, not my Lord Cromwell or Sir Richard Rich."

He has no opportunity to continue, "Do not speak such lies to me, Charles!" Henry rages, exploding immediately at the suggestion that his golden child is anything less than perfect, "Has this monster eaten into your mind and deceived you? My boy has taken it upon himself to investigate these crimes - and it is _he_ who uncovered the truth!"

"I wish that were so, Majesty." Brandon sighs, "I truly wish that Fitzroy had indeed undertaken an investigation - but had he done so, he could not have identified the men that he has named, for they are not the ones responsible for these crimes."

Henry glowers, but does not speak.

"Forgive my presumption, Majesty." Brandon resumes, "What evidence did his Grace set before you when he made his accusation against Sir Richard Rich?"

"Evidence?" the King asks, "Why should he need to provide evidence? The word of a noble and a prince is evidence enough! Has it not always been so? His word is sufficient - and is of greater weight than the word of a low-born gentry knight and a cloth trader!"

Cromwell feels no surprise at the sudden dismissal of his importance, and thus shows none. It is nothing less than he expected - as he had warned Rich when he had first mentioned his discovery of the chain upon which Fitzroy keeps his trophy jewels. The word of a Duke is, indeed, evidence enough.

"I should have thought much the same, Majesty," Brandon admits, sadly, "but when I came upon my Lord Cromwell, he had discovered the truth. It lies within this wooden coffer what was hidden with great care in the Duke's apartment."

"Hidden?" Henry turns and glares viciously at Cromwell, "You broke into my son's apartments?"

Cromwell says nothing. Instead, Brandon continues, "That is of lesser importance, Majesty. The truth resides within that coffer - and you must read it for yourself."

* * *

The coffer rests upon the table, a silent accusation. The King seems loath to touch it, as though the very act of doing so is a condemnation upon his beloved son. Watching him, Cromwell churns inside; why is he taking so long? Does it not matter to him that his son is, quite possibly, murdering one of his Privy Councillors as he sits and stares at a box?

He swallows, and forces himself to calm down; he, too, is a loving father with only one son to continue his line. How would he behave if Gregory faced such a charge? Would he react with equanimity? Quietly reach for the evidence and examine it objectively? Of course he would not - and yet he expects such behaviour from his King…

 _Hurry, hurry, hurry…_

Then, as though his arm is held by lead weights, Henry reaches into the coffer and retrieves the first paper - the one that Cromwell discovered first. As before, the tiny vial causes the page to droop, and the King reaches in with his other hand to lift it.

"It is his writing, your Majesty." Brandon says, very quietly.

"I know." Henry snaps, "I have been reading his letters for years. I do not need to be told." Then he lapses into silence. And reads.

His expression seems not to change; but the effect of the words upon the page is unmistakeable as the edges of the paper begin to quiver in response to his shaking hands. Gradually, his face registers disbelief; as did Cromwell's - for how could it be possible that a youth of barely eighteen years could commit such depraved violence upon another living soul?

Setting the paper down, the King reaches in for another. At first, the disbelief becomes greater and greater anger, for he refuses to accept the words that are telling him an unwanted, unwelcome truth. This is not his son. This is not his darling Fitzroy…it must be another…it must be.

But it is not.

"Where was this found?" He asks, after an almost interminable pause.

Brandon turns to Cromwell, who speaks for the first time since they arrived in the King's presence, "It was within a large travelling box in a closet in…in his Grace's bedchamber, Majesty." He struggles to mention the name of the perpetrator he has come so utterly to hate.

Henry reaches into the coffer for another paper, and Cromwell realises it is the description of Kat's murder. Gradually, as he reads, the King's face falls, as he is confronted with the cruel relish of a man who forced himself upon a dying woman as she pledged her love to another; who could not save her. Setting the paper aside, he reaches for another, and another.

 _For Christ's sake - how many more do you need to see?_

Cromwell is almost hopping upon the spot in his desperation to be away. Fitzroy is still free - he has Rich in his custody and, if they have reached the Tower - they must have done by now - and Rich is not yet dead, then he is almost certainly enduring torture. God above, why are they waiting? What if their delays lead to another death? Even one more is one too many…

Slowly, painfully, the King looks up at them. His expression is agonised, for at last he is seeing the truth about his beloved boy. There is nothing he can say, or do, to refute this - for it is in Fitzroy's own hand. Why would he write this, and in such detail, if he were not present? How could he know of it if others had committed the crimes? He has lied…he has lied to his own father…his King…

"Go." He says, very quietly, "Fetch him back. Fetch Fitzroy back to me."

"Yes, your Majesty." Brandon bows hastily, as does Cromwell, before they turn and depart with all haste, their retinue of guards in close pursuit.

As he follows Brandon out of the Privy Chamber, Cromwell tries as hard as he can to suppress his anger that the King's order did not include an exhortation to save Rich.

* * *

As they hurry through the corridors, Brandon waves over a youth wearing his livery, "Go to the Privy Stairs, engage a barge as soon as you may. We shall be along shortly."

As the youth rushes away, Brandon takes a turn that shall lead them away from the exit, and Cromwell protests, "Where are we going, your Grace?"

"To my apartments. There are some items that I fear we shall need."

"But…"

"Do you think that the boy shall acquiesce at the first sight of us? Even if he is _not_ insane, I do not doubt that we shall not live to see another dawn should we face him unprepared. Come with me."

Hurrying into his apartments, which are quiet and dark, for the candles are not yet lit, Brandon leads Cromwell through to a small antechamber. Confused, Cromwell watches as the Duke lights a candle, then removes a painting from the wall to reveal a small wooden door set into the plaster. He retrieves a set of keys from a pocket in his doublet, separates out a single, small key, and unlocks the door before opening it to reveal two fine wooden cases within the small space beyond.

Fetching out the cases, he hands them to Cromwell, before locking up the cupboard and replacing the picture, "Put those on the table in the main chamber."

"What are these?" Cromwell asks as he complies, "Weapons, I presume?"

"You presume correctly." Brandon replies, opening one of the cases. Within lie two remarkable looking pistols.

"Guns? How do you expect to fire them? We cannot carry them concealed - the slow-match would burn our garments!"

"Look again."

Cromwell does so, but then looks up again, bemused, "What am I expected to notice from them? I have not fired a gun in years."

Brandon lifts one of the weapons, "These are the latest of their kind, Mr Cromwell: self striking, so they do not require a slow-match, and can be carried concealed. They are wheellock pistols - I obtained them from a gunsmith in Vienna, though they are banned throughout the Holy Roman Empire. I suspect it is thanks to their ability to be carried amidst clothing."

"Do they load in the same manner as a matchlock?" Cromwell asks, hastily, as he reaches for the other.

"They do." Brandon retrieves the second box and opens it to reveal another brace within, "But care must be taken when priming. Let me show you."

Cromwell watches carefully as Brandon prepares the first of the pistols for firing. As he begins to load the pair that the Duke has assigned to him, Brandon turns to look at him, "Do you truly think that Fitzroy is as mad as the papers suggest?"

Concentrating on priming the weapon, Cromwell nods.

* * *

Night has now fallen, and but for their status, and the urgency of their mission, it would not be possible to find river transport other than one of the larger royal barges. Thanks to the importance of the Duke of Suffolk, one such vessel waits for them, rising and falling with the swell of the river, while large lanterns have been mounted fore and aft to warn other shipping of their presence as they travel.

"Haste, my lords!" the captain calls, as they hasten down the privy steps, "The tide is on the turn, and we shall make good time - two hours, perhaps less!"

 _Two hours…dear Christ…two hours…and what is happening at the Tower now?_

His expression tense, Cromwell seats himself beside Brandon in the small cabin, closed off from the oarsmen. His only hope is that, with the tide against them, Fitzroy's barge took considerably longer to get to the Tower, thereby leaving Rich helpless for less time - but how long have they delayed? Was it really two hours since his arrest? Perhaps more? Less? He has no idea.

Sitting alongside the Lord Privy Seal, Brandon eyes him, intrigued. In his mind, Cromwell seemed utterly incapable of showing any emotion of any kind - or even feeling it - and here he is, clearly fretting over the welfare of a man that, until last autumn, he seemed to actively despise.

It had amused everyone about the court to watch that brittleness as they had first set out to work with each other over the closure of the monastic houses - himself included. By the time that initial frost had thawed, most had grown bored with the entire matter, being far more interested in other gossip; and it is only now that he can see the bond of friendship that has grown between the two. How strange that it should have happened over a string of murders…

"I must ask you to forgive me, my Lord." He ventures, quietly, "I shared in the general amusement about the Court at the notion of your being required to work with a man you disliked as much as you did. I did not see the degree of friendship that has grown between you. It is only now, that I see your concern for his welfare, that it is clear to me. I did not think it possible that such a thing could exist - for I considered you to be too cold, and Mr Rich too craven. In that, I was wrong - and I offer my apologies."

Cromwell regards him for a moment, and then shakes his head, "Your Grace - you have no need to apologise to me - for in some ways you are correct. It was our work together that brought out the qualities that fed our friendship, not the men that we were - or are. We have learned much about one another, and learned to appreciate our better selves. I learned many years ago that it is wise, and safe, to keep myself utterly guarded - for am I not a base-born commoner amongst nobles? I have risen far above the station that I should have expected in life, and I am not unaware that I am despised for my presumption. I give nothing, trust no one, and thus work to maintain my survival amongst men who would give all to bring me down."

"And what of Rich?"

"When first he began his work, I knew him only as a man who was willing to besmirch his hands, and his conscience, for my convenience. I used him, I fear, for he could deceive Doctor Fisher and Sir Thomas More into granting the King his will - to prove them traitors when they instead sought only to accept the supremacy of God over Man. While Rich lacks strength of will, he is not a base coward, for he has accepted the harsh challenge of working alongside me to track down the murderer of those women - even when one of them was dearer to him than his own life."

"I thought she was merely another of his mistresses."

Cromwell shakes his head, "In name, perhaps - but not in fact. He loved her dearly, and she reciprocated - the black pearl, the one that Fitzroy named as his trophy from her; it was his gift to her this Christmastide past, and its loss left him distraught, for it was precious to her, as she was precious to him."

"And I thought him incapable of loving anything other than his own advancement."

"As did I. Until I saw him with Miss Silverton. Perhaps, once, he did care only for himself - but she taught him not merely to care, but to love." Cromwell turns to Brandon, "You know, as I do, that the King wills, the King must have. He sees not the manner in which his will is brought about, and thinks nothing of it - but it is the task of men such as I, men such as Rich, to carry the burden upon our consciences as we work his will. Perhaps we have committed mortal sins in the doing of that task - and it may be that I shall never see the gates of Heaven for my acts - but I live in hope, and perhaps the ending of this horror shall be my redemption."

Brandon watches him for a moment, as though seeing him with new eyes. This is not the heartless, uncaring Thomas Cromwell that he has always seen whenever he has encountered him at work…

"I do not know if we can ever be friends, my Lord." He says, still quiet, "But perhaps you have shown me that you are not the man I thought you to be."

"I am indeed not." Cromwell says, darkly, staring out across the blackness of the night, "I am far, far worse."

* * *

They have long since lapsed into tense silence as the oarsmen pull with a will. Even with the tide in their favour, they move at little better than a walking pace in the swell of an early autumn squall, and the Captain's estimation of their arrival turns out to be rather optimistic.

As the barge pulls up at the Water Gate, a guard approaches, the Constable at his side, "Your Grace, my Lord - thanks be to God that you have arrived so quickly in answer to my summons…"

"Summons?" Brandon asks, bemused, "When did you send a summons?"

"Some three hours ago, my Lord - though I did not expect an answer so soon, for the weather is most inclement…" he pauses, "If you did not receive my summons, then why have you come? How did you know of my predicament?"

"Predicament?" Cromwell asks, "We are here to retrieve his Grace the Duke of Richmond."

"Then you must know - for he has demanded my keys from me, and has taken it upon himself to incarcerate a prisoner."

"Was that prisoner Sir Richard Rich?"

"Yes, my Lord Cromwell; he seemed to be in great fear, and his mouth was stopped with a gag. I attempted to prevent their entry to the Tower, but Fitzroy threatened my life - and thus I did not know what else I could do but allow him to pass."

"Where did he go?" Brandon asks, at once.

"I know not, your Grace - for he forbade us to follow him, on pain of death."

"Then we shall have to search the fortress. Damn him!"

"I think not, your Grace," Cromwell says, urgently, "We know that Fitzroy is cruel, horribly so - and thus we can be assured of the places to which he has _not_ gone. Thus, our search shall be far quicker than it might seem. He must have gone to those chambers where the lowest of prisoners are interrogated - for that is where the instruments are kept."

"Do you think he shall use them?" Kingston asks, horrified.

"That, I do not know - but even if he has not, the proximity to them might well be sufficient for his desire to intimidate his victim."

"Come with us." Brandon orders, "Bring all the guards that you can find - Fitzroy is to be returned to his father's presence immediately, and we must find where he has taken Sir Richard. Move!"

Kingston turns to the guard beside him, "You heard his Grace - empty the guardroom and follow us to the lower cells. Immediately, man!"

Brandon has not visited the Tower in many years - and certainly not the cells. Cromwell, on the other hand, knows them well, and breaks into a run, "This way - in the inner ward!"

As they make their way towards the dread walls that conceal the lowest, darkest of parts of the prison, they are alone but for the four guards who came with them. The Tower warders shall follow - for they know where to go, and do not need Cromwell to lead them.

Once inside, he slows down, for while he knows there are cells here, he does not know which one is their target. Their shufflings and the sound of their feet on the flags arouses the curious voices of prisoners, hopeful for news from loved ones, or from those who sent them into this place - but there is no time to answer. They have only one prisoner in their sights now.

"Where might he be?" Brandon asks, softly.

"That, I cannot guess - but I cannot imagine that Fitzroy shall…"

He breaks off, as a sudden scream pierces the air, and then a voice, shouting frantically.

"What is that? What is he saying? I cannot make it out…" Brandon says, bemused.

"I care not what it says - for I know that voice." Cromwell hisses, "Come, quickly!"

The words are Latin, possibly; but the echoes rob them of any sense. The voice that cries them out, however, is familiar. It is Rich.


	22. De Profundis

**A/N:** Thanks for your review, Lilac and Lilies - I'm pleased that the intensity is still good and high!

I suspect that not even a spoken confession by Fitzroy himself with his hand on a Bible would've worked with Henry had it not been under the auspices of someone he trusted absolutely (well, as absolutely as Henry ever trusted _anyone_ ); and only Brandon really fits that bill - hence his about-turn in the face of overwhelming evidence.

Mary's role in the story is - admittedly - largely background and serves really as a device to illustrate just how much Henry showered adoration on his only (at that point) male child. She really did return to court to find that Fitzroy was occupying her former apartments - though whether she reacted as she does in this tale is pure conjecture. Given her relationships with her siblings during their collective childhoods, I imagine she was not as overtly resentful of Fitzroy as she appears here.

But now the time has come for Fitzroy to face his accusers. What will he do? Read on to find out...

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

 _De Profundis_

A deluge of icy water cascades over Rich's head, dragging him back from the peace of unconsciousness into the searing pain of his ordeal. He does not know how long he has been here; all that fills his awareness now is the agony of his arms as he hangs, the gripping pain in his wrists from the chains that bind them. He throbs from shoulders to waist, the cold air upon bare flesh that is welted and bloody from the strap that has been struck against him again, and again, and again…

A face emerges into his confused vision, and he moans, weakly: Fitzroy…

"You do not escape from your punishment so easily, sinner. Not if you are to be redeemed. Speak!"

How can he speak? It is an effort even to breathe…

Fitzroy raises his hand, the long leather strap that he clutches hanging from it, his eyes crazed but his expression beatific despite the viciousness of his words, "Speak!"

And then he steps back, raises his arm, and lashes at Rich with the leather, landing yet another welt upon his back amidst the others, that burn and even, in some cases, bleed. He cannot keep back a scream.

"Speak!"

" _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis…_ "

He is struck again, and screams again, for this time the pain is stronger as the strap reaches around his back and flicks against his side, magnifying the intensity of the contact, " _…cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione…"_ he moans, partly from the pain, but mostly from fear, for he cannot remember what comes next. He should…he was brought up speaking this…but it has escaped his memory; either that or the pain has driven it out. He has been speaking it interminably from the moment he was first stripped of his doublet and shirt, and hung by his wrists from the ceiling of the cell…he cannot have forgotten.

Fitzroy utters a horrible growling sound, that might be rage, or frustration, and begins to lash at him violently. There is no diminution of the force in his strikes, "Speak the words, you foul sinner! Speak them!"

And he remembers, the words tumbling from him in a frantic rush, " _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum!_ "

There is suddenly a hideous pain in his side as the strap curls around his back to strike there, though he does not know what it is. It is far, far worse than the strikes of the leather, and his scream ends in a gasp as the very act of breathing seems to exacerbate it, "God! God help me! Oh dear Christ! Save me, I beg you! Oh God!"

"Not until you are redeemed, sinner. For with the Lord there is plenteous redemption. Speak!"

Rich cannot keep back a sob, _"Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione…_ " he breaks off with a scream as the whipping continues, the blows reaching across his chest and belly as Fitzroy moves around him, " _Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."_

He has forgotten now what it was like not to be like this - not to be hanging; his shoulders burning, his wrists throbbing, his hands numb and tingling. He has no memory of a time when his torso was not afire with bloody welts. It shall be like this forever…forever…until he is dead…

And he is struck again, "Speak, Sinner!" Fitzroy demands.

" _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum._ "

"Louder!" He is struck again, forcing another scream from his raw throat.

" _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum!_ "

" _LOUDER!_ " The lash is brutal, and again Rich screams.

" _CONFITEOR DEO OMNIPOTENTE, ET VOBIS, FRATRES, QUIA PECCAVI NIMIS, COGITATIONE, VERBO, OPERE, ET OMMISIONE: MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMA CULPA. IDEO PRECOR BEATAM MARIAM SEMPER VIRGINEM, OMNES, ANGELOS ET SANCTOS, ET VOS FRATRES, ORARE PRO ME AD DOMINUM DEUM NOSTRUM!_ " The pain is all but unendurable; he can barely breathe, "Oh God! Oh Christ! Enough! I cannot endure any more! I beg you, enough!"

"It is not enough. It shall not end until you are redeemed." Fitzroy whispers in his ear, "Now, speak. Shout out your confession!"

"I cannot…" Rich groans, "I cannot speak…I cannot breathe…"

Fitzroy's answer is another outburst of violent lashes with the strap; Rich's cry is agonised, and once again he screams out the words that are demanded of him, " _CONFITEOR DEO OMNIPOTENTE, ET VOBIS, FRATRES, QUIA PECCAVI NIMIS, COGITATIONE, VERBO, OPERE, ET OMMISIONE: MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMA CULPA. IDEO PRECOR BEATAM MARIAM SEMPER VIRGINEM, OMNES, ANGELOS ET SANCTOS, ET VOS FRATRES, ORARE PRO ME AD DOMINUM DEUM NOSTRUM!_ "

He is going to die here…in agony…alone…no one who cares for him nearby to comfort him in his last hours… _Kat…oh, thank God…she will be there once this is ended…take me to her, oh Lord…take me to her, let me be with her in eternity…please…let it end…let me come home…let me be where she is…_

He does not notice that the lashing has stopped, but continues anyway, " _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum."_

Then it begins to dawn upon him that he is reciting in silence. Where is Fitzroy? Why is it so still? Despite his pain, Rich looks up, and forces his eyes to focus. And realises that they are no longer alone.

* * *

"Enough, your Grace. Step back from him." Brandon's voice is low, almost deadly. If he had not believed the youth to be capable of almost inhuman cruelty, he can see now that he must. His eyes widen at the sight of Rich, hanging by his wrists, bared to the waist - his garments replaced by a gruesome coat of red, throbbing wounds, some of which weep blood in small rivulets over the livid skin. _The boy is but eighteen…and he does this to a man? God help England if we do not end this now_ …

Fitzroy eyes the Duke of Suffolk without any apparent recognition, "I answer not to you; for you are but a man." It is as though the boy is not present - as though he has cut himself away from his true self, and imagines himself to be another person entirely.

"I am your equal, your Grace. In almost every aspect. I am created a Duke by his Majesty, and I am of illegitimate birth. Step away from him, and set down the lash."

His eyes half closed, Rich continues to speak, faintly, and Cromwell recognises the words of the _Confiteor_. It seems that, even now, in the presence of rescuers, and the halting of his torment, he does not dare to stop.

"I am not a Duke." Fitzroy says, his eyes glazed and his expression almost alight with religious fervour, "I am of the Angels."

Brandon stares at him, utterly unable to find words to respond to such a statement. Is Fitzroy truly so mad? Is it self-deception? Is he possessed?

Then Cromwell speaks, quietly, "His Majesty has the ebony coffer, your Grace."

Fitzroy goes very still. Then, slowly, he turns his head and looks upon Cromwell as though seeing him for the first time, the beatific expression vanishing as a deadly truth reaches through his delusion and forcibly restores him to the present, "My father…the coffer…"

"He has read the papers it holds. He knows now what you have done. What you have become."

The youth's eyes glaze again, but his expression now is savage, violent, as he addresses the retainers who came with him, "They are but two men - kill them!"

They had been watching Rich's torture with enjoyment, and its cruelty has awakened their own savage temperaments. Their eyes as vicious as their master's, the four that were named by Stephen Mount: Herbert, Colling, Stacke and Bellman, advance. They are, to a man, tall and powerfully built, and each is ready to inflict violence upon the two who have interrupted their entertainment.

Without hesitation, Cromwell and Brandon draw their pistols, and each stands ready to fire, "We have both fought in wars, your Grace," Cromwell advises, coldly, "and we have both taken lives. Do not think that we shall not do so again if we must."

Brandon says nothing, but his expression is set, and his stance firm. He, like Cromwell, is ready to kill if the need arises. Behind Cromwell's head, Rich whimpers the _Confiteor_ again, utterly exhausted, but unable to cease that endless plea for atonement while Fitzroy stands beside him.

The four men pause, uncertain in the face of weaponry, "The guns have no slow-match," one says, "They cannot be fired - it is nothing more than a trick!"

"Are you willing to trust that?" Brandon asks, coldly, "Can you be sure that these guns even need a slow-match? Perhaps they are the newest of their kind - the wheellock. It needs no slow match, for it is self striking, and it could end your life before you even take a step toward me. Thus you must consider: do you feel willing to take that risk? That luck is upon your side, ruffian? Truly?"

His expression equally cold, Cromwell deliberately takes aim at the one who spoke, the gun primed and ready to fire. Their attempt to ignore the threat of the weapons and resume their advance suddenly stilled again.

"Stand down." Brandon orders, "You shall be arrested and taken to cells by the Tower Guard. If you refuse, you die here and now." He does not need to add that they shall instead die later. That seems, at least to him, to be an inevitable conclusion. The sound of a multitude of footsteps as all available warders make their way to the cell is an additional incentive. Their eyes suddenly fearful, the four men raise their hands in supplication.

"Constable!" Cromwell calls through the door, "Arrest these four. We shall deal with the Duke."

Both men stand firm as the four retainers are surrounded, arrested and bundled from the cell with surprisingly little difficulty. With his protectors gone, Fitzroy glares at the two armed men with dangerous eyes. Behind them, Kingston steps back and waits by the door.

Unfazed, Brandon raises his arm, and aims one pistol at the mad prince, "Enough, your Grace. Step aside from Sir Richard, and submit yourself to the King's justice. It ends here, and it ends now. Do not force me to shoot you - for if I must, I _will_."

* * *

His eyes vicious, Fitzroy steps behind Rich, as though intending to use him as a human shield, "I shall not comply with your demands, Brandon. You are a mere Duke. I am a Prince of the Blood." As he speaks, his hand slowly, meticulously, moves up and down Rich's back, deliberately pressing down roughly upon the bloody welts, "I am above your orders, or your considerations. I answer only to his Majesty, and if he is not here to order me, then you have no authority to demand anything." He ignores his victim's hoarse groans as he continues to prod, and - yet again - Rich whispers the _Confiteor_ , his throat too sore to manage anything louder.

"You have no alternative but to stand there." He continues, still prodding, "Stand there and watch as I do as I will. I am the Son of the King, and I shall walk from this room a free man. I shall then return to him and tell him that he is deceived by a vile plot to destroy me - a plot in which you intend to take the throne, to rule as Protector over one of the royal girls, for I am to be a victim of your jealousy."

"It is too late for that, your Grace." Brandon advises, "He has seen the coffer. He knows your writing as well as he knows his own."

Finally abandoning Rich's wounds, he steps out from behind his hanging victim, "And does he not believe every word that I say? Did he not believe me when I told him this whining fool beside me destroyed five women?"

"Perhaps he did, once." Cromwell answers, quietly, "But no longer – for he has seen the proof of your actions written in your own hand, and thus the scales have fallen from his eyes."

Fitzroy snorts with disdain, "He is blind to everything that I have ever done! I am his beloved son, and his _only_ son! In his eyes, I can do no wrong, and I shall prove it to you!"

His smile widening, almost like that of a shark, he draws his poniard and steps back again, "I shall kill Rich - here and now; before your helpless eyes. You shall not stop me, for I am a prince of the Blood. I shall then walk from here and return to the Palace to inform his Majesty of your duplicity. And so you shall join him in death."

Still smiling, he sets the point of the weapon against Rich's side, ready to drive it in between his ribs to the heart pulsing beyond, calmly ignoring his victim's fearful moan at the sense of the point against his bruised flesh, and the pistol aimed at him even as he speaks.

His expression set, Brandon speaks only once, "You shall not. If you do, I swear before God and these witnesses that I shall shoot you - do not think that I shall not."

Fitzroy's eyes narrow, his smile widens with cruelty. Ignoring Brandon's order, he turns back to Rich to check the position of the point, before looking once more at the two men he thinks to be helpless against him, and tenses to deliver his killing blow.

Without even a flicker of emotion, Brandon pulls the trigger.

The explosion of sound is enormous in the confined space, sufficient almost to drown out Rich's hoarse scream. Then, as the smoke clears, everything seems utterly still.

His face still wreathed in a smile, Fitzroy stares glassily at Brandon. Between his eyes, there is now a hole in his forehead where once there was unwrinkled skin, and a rivulet of blood makes its way down the side of his perfect, aquiline nose like a Saint's tear. Then, the poniard drops to the stone floor with a shocking clatter in the sudden silence, before the mad, now dead, prince topples in its wake.

* * *

The silence seems to last forever, as Brandon slowly lowers the pistol that has ended the life of the Son of the King. His expression is sorrowful, but implacable. He did what he did because there was no other choice. Enough innocents have died at the hands of that twisted youth; no more. If he is fortunate, perhaps - in time - Henry shall forgive him.

Cromwell has set his pistols down upon the floor, "Help me, your Grace." His voice is urgent, and Brandon is pulled from his reverie to see that the Lord Privy Seal is now engaged with releasing the chains at the wall to lower Rich to the floor. Abandoning his weapons, he steps in to assist, grasping Rich's arms to stop him from falling. Even now - even after all that has happened, the Chancellor is still speaking, whimpering faintly, his eyes screwed tight shut, " _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum…_ "

"Help me to sit him on the stool, your Grace."

"He is severely injured, I think."

"Not as much as he might have been. We should be grateful that Fitzroy did not use a scourge - or he would almost certainly be dead."

As they seat him, Rich screams again. His breathing is shallow, as though to do so too deeply is impossible; his head is bowed, his face ashen and sheened with sweat as though upon the point of fainting, his eyes tightly closed.

"Where is the worst of the pain?" Cromwell asks, crouching before him.

" _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum._ "

"Richard - you do not need to speak the _Confiteor_ any longer. It is over - Fitzroy is dead. You are no longer in his power."

Rich shakes his head, fearfully, "I cannot…I dare not…I must not until I am redeemed… _Confiteor Deo omnipotente, et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione, verbo, opere, et ommisione: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper virginem, omnes, angelos et sanctos, et vos fratres, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum._ "

Cromwell looks up at Brandon, who turns to the door, "Mr Kingston?"

"I am here, your Grace." He has not left his post.

"Summon a physician to tend to Sir Richard."

"At once, your Grace."

Brandon returns to Cromwell, "Why will he not stop speaking the _Confiteor_?"

"I think he is too afraid to." Cromwell says, quietly, "Richard - you can stop. You are permitted to stop. There is no longer any need for you to continue. It is over; Fitzroy cannot censure you, or beat you. It is done. You are rescued…"

Slowly, very slowly, Rich looks up and opens his eyes, "I must not…" his voice is shaking with emotion, "I must not…let me join her; please, let me join her. I have no wish to be on this earth any longer - why did you not let him end it? I wanted him to end it…I wanted to be with her again…" and then he slumps forward over Cromwell's shoulder, and cries.

"Her?" Brandon asks.

Cromwell does not answer, but looks up at him sadly. Remembering their discussion on the Barge, he nods.

* * *

"I have secured a physician, my Lord." Kingston reports, rather more quickly than expected, "Doctor Butts - he was tending to a warder's wife."

"My Lord Cromwell, I heard that a man was injured…God above, what has happened here?" Doctor Butts appears in the doorway and sees Rich, still slumped against Cromwell, still sobbing.

"Doctor," Brandon intervenes, "Before you tend to Sir Richard - I must ask you to verify the state of this corpse." He steps aside to reveal the fallen body of Fitzroy.

"Jesu have mercy!" Butts says, sharply, "The Duke of Richmond? How is it that this has happened? Who shot him?"

"I did."

"You, your Grace? But why?"

"He does not know?" Brandon asks Cromwell, who shakes his head; "We did not have time to advise him."

"Fitzroy was responsible for the murders, Doctor." Brandon advises, "It is - I fear, rather a long story."

Butts nods, "Tell me later. Mr Kingston," he turns to the door, where the Constable is still waiting, "Fetch in a truckle and some blankets for Sir Richard. I shall need to tend to him here before he can be moved to more suitable quarters. I shall see to the corpse while you are busy."

All business again, Butts retrieves the leather gauntlets from his bag, and kneels beside the corpse, "I can certainly confirm that he is dead, your Grace. From a single wound to the head. I think, however, that such an assessment is rather plainly obvious, is it not?"

"Perhaps." Brandon agrees, "If that is officially the case, then I shall see to the removal of the corpse back to the Palace, for I think it appropriate that he be transported back there in case his Majesty wishes to view his remains."

Butts nods, "That would be wise." He speaks more quietly, "I think Mr Cromwell should assist you. I do not wish to have him attempting to direct my examination of Mr Rich."

"It is nothing more than loyalty to a good friend, Doctor."

"That may be. But it's a bloody nuisance nonetheless, your Grace."

Kingston returns with two guards, who carry a simple truckle bed into the cell, while the Constable carries two felt blankets, "I trust these are suitable, Doctor?"

"Excellent. If you could assist his Grace, my Lord, we shall tend to Sir Richard." His voice is friendly, but there is a hint of steel in it; a warning that he shall not be impressed if Cromwell refuses to comply. Rich has calmed somewhat, but still continues occasionally to murmur under his breath. It seems that even now he cannot keep from reciting the _Confiteor_.

Butts burrows into his bag, "Do you have some ale or wine nearby, Constable? I think this man needs rest more than he needs anything else, and his pain is preventing it." Yet again, Kingston departs, with an air of such patience that Cromwell is deeply impressed at his forbearance. While he waits, Butts persuades Rich to stretch out upon the truckle, though he cries out again, sharply, as he lies down.

"What is that?" Cromwell asks, at once, "He cried out in similar fashion as we seated him."

"I think it is naught but a cracked rib, my Lord. Perhaps he had been struck in the same place too many times, or with a particularly awkward strike of the strap. Painful, but not overly harmful as long as we rest him with care." Butts advises, before shooting a look at Cromwell that all but shouts _go away._ As soon as Kingston returns with a flagon and a cup, Butts retrieves his bottle of poppy juice, and it is not long before Rich is sleeping.

Brandon is crouching beside the corpse, having taken one of the blankets to drape over it. He looks up as Cromwell joins him, "Perhaps this is for the best." He sighs, "The evidence is beyond refutation. His Majesty would have had no alternative but to condemn his own son - or have him locked away as a madman. How could he possibly do so, given his public adulation of the boy?"

"That, I agree, would have been all but impossible for him. The injuries he has inflicted upon Sir Richard would be excused immediately and some reason fabricated to explain it - one that would almost certainly lead to a false accusation of treason, I think; but a confession to so many brutal deaths? I did not count the papers, but there were at least fifty, possibly more. How many have died at that youth's hands - and those of his accomplices? For I have no doubt that those men who are now in custody are the ones who ensured that he entered the apartments unseen, and departed without leaving any sign of his depravity beyond the door of the scene."

"I imagine that they shall tell all."

"If they do not, then I shall make them. See if they enjoy experiencing torment as much as they enjoy watching it." Cromwell says, with shocking venom. Brandon looks up at him again, startled, then turns back to the truckle bed where Butts has now draped the other blanket over Rich to warm him. It is not just the deaths of the women; but also the suffering of a friend. Sighing, he returns his attention to the corpse, and lifts the blanket.

"A moment, your Grace." Cromwell bends and carefully unfastens the top of Fitzroy's doublet, "There is still one thing that must be done."

Reaching under the fine velvet, he retrieves the chain that caused Rich to stumble headlong into the disastrous mire that almost engulfed him. Brandon stares at it, "What - are these items stolen from his victims? I thought them to be gifts from lovers. He all but claimed them to be so; such was his pride in them, I found it amusing…" his voice trails off at the realisation that they are anything but gifts.

"They are not. They were indeed trophies taken from those whom he killed. Richard recognised one of the jewels; and Fitzroy realised he had done so. Regardless of his mania, I had noticed some time ago that, when in his right mind, he was dangerously acute to all about him, and took careful account of things that others might not even have noticed. That is what led to this." Grimacing, he reaches under Fitzroy's neck to unfasten the chain, and lifts it away, "You can cover him now."

As Brandon drapes the felt over the body, Cromwell carefully removes Kat's pearl from the chain. She had done so much to help them; if only it had not been in the act of dying. "It was Kathryn who showed us the way, your Grace." He says, quietly, "She knew even as she faced Fitzroy what was to come - and yet still she did what she could to aid us, such was her courage. She grasped a handful of his doublet, and her grip was so tight in death that he had no choice but to tear his garment from her grasp - leaving a fragment behind. It was the first sign we had that the killer was not a mere Courtier. The loss of the pearl also indicated that he was stealing from them - though I knew nothing of the vials of blood until I found the coffer."

Leaving Brandon with the corpse, he turns back to Butts, "Doctor - give this to Richard when he is in a fit state to receive it. This is the black pearl drop that he begged us to retrieve for him."

The Doctor takes it, "I shall do so. Leave him in my care - I shall oversee his return to Placentia. I think it best if we find some means of transporting him to better quarters. It would not do for him to recover his senses and find himself still to be in this place of suffering. Mr Kingston, if you and your guards would kindly assist me?"

"Of course." Kingston nods, then turns to Brandon, "Your Grace, do not trouble yourself with the movement of the corpse. My men are well used to dealing with the dead. I shall organise his return to the Palace if that is your requirement."

"My thanks, Constable." Brandon agrees, "It is best, however, if the matter remains secret for the time being. I had thought to transport his remains back to Placentia, but, on thinking again, I feel he should be found an appropriate place of repose within the Tower where none but his father can visit him - should he wish to do so." He sighs, heavily, "I think, my Lord, there is nothing more that we can do here. Our only recourse now is to return to Greenwich."

Cromwell nods, and looks back briefly to where Rich now lies unconscious upon the rough truckle bed. They have ended the nightmare - but the cost…

Retrieving his borrowed pistols, he turns back to Brandon, "Lead on, your Grace. Let us to the King."


	23. Conspiracy of Silence

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

 _Conspiracy of Silence_

The atmosphere aboard the barge is sombre. The need for urgency past, neither man is concerned that the oarsmen are not pulling at their hardest - not in the thick darkness of the early hours. Why bother? The only destination is the Privy Chamber, where the King must learn that his son is dead.

As he looks out over the black waters, Cromwell wonders how his Majesty shall receive such news. He is not unaware that, had it been he who had pulled the trigger, this would almost certainly become a return trip back to the Tower - for the King would never have countenanced such an act from a man as low as he. Even though Brandon fired that fatal shot, he cannot avoid a cold shiver; it was his revelation of that ghastly evidence that brought them to this, and how likely is it that Henry shall forgive him for it?

In light of Brandon's revised decision, no barge has been engaged to transport Fitzroy's remains back to the Palace; instead, the corpse is being transferred to the Chapel in the Keep, where it shall be kept secretly until a decision is made on what to do next. The four men who accompanied him shall reside in widely separated cells, for the same reason.

"What of the retainers?" Brandon asks, quietly, intent upon the shipping that surrounds them in the Pool of London rather than the man to whom he speaks.

"I shall interview them." Cromwell answers grimly, "For though we know that Fitzroy was responsible, and they assisted him, we do not know how. Their involvement must be clarified; I suspect that they were fully aware of their actions, and willing participants. If, however, they were not, then we must take care not to act against them in a permanent fashion. There has been enough innocent blood spilled in all of this."

Finally, Brandon turns to look at Cromwell. He has the chain that he took from Fitzroy in his hands, carefully examining the four remaining items upon it, "Why would he take something from them?"

"That, I cannot say." Cromwell admits, "Perhaps he wished to keep a reminder of the women who died - a token of his murders. That the deaths were so well planned suggests a mind keen upon the act. Perhaps the collection of small items was to remember them - to keep a connection to the women he killed – as though they were lovers whom he had kept and from whom he had parted on good terms. I cannot fathom how a man could think so; and thus I cannot determine whether that is truly the case."

"We shall not be able to allow the truth to be spoken, my Lord." Brandon says, suddenly.

"Of that, I am also aware." Cromwell agrees, "I do not know how that shall sit with Sir Richard; whether the death of the perpetrator shall be a sufficient vengeance for him. Fitzroy caused him great suffering, and to live on, knowing that the youth shall not answer for his crimes before an Earthly court may be a burden that he shall struggle to carry. Until I have spoken to him, however, I cannot say how he shall think on it. He must know of it, and agree with it, if any tale we tell is to become the truth of this."

Brandon shakes his head, "I wish that we could be so considerate, my Lord Cromwell; but we cannot. The truth shall be far more destructive to England than a lie shall be to one man - grieving though he is. It would be impossible for his Majesty to admit that his son was insane, for to do so would cause men to think that perhaps it was inherited from his father. It is far too dangerous to allow such a rumour to escape - not after the spilling of so much blood to restore the King's authority in the face of the rebellions. As for the opinions of Princes elsewhere..." he shudders at the thought of such a diplomatic calamity.

"We cannot construct a false tale until I have interviewed the accomplices, my Lord." Cromwell adds, "Whatever tale we tell must not conflict with theirs. If their involvement was coerced, then to destroy them would be unacceptable. If, however, they are as guilty as their master - perhaps that can work to our advantage. But only if they _are_ guilty."

Brandon resumes his perusal of passing ships, "Such consideration, my Lord. What if we had shown such care to our late friends Sir Thomas More and John Fisher?"

"Then I should sleep better at night, and be haunted by fewer ghosts." Cromwell answers, bitterly.

* * *

They pass the rest of the journey in silence, each buried in their own thoughts. _We have won - and yet, have we also lost?_ Cromwell thinks to himself. _Fitzroy is dead; but in that, at least, we are spared the need to place him on trial. That, the King could not stand._

All that remains now is to uncover how Fitzroy's retainers helped him. Were they present in the room when the killings took place? Did they disguise their master? How did they select the victims? If they cannot bring Fitzroy to justice before an Earthly court, then the four who helped him must not escape it. Fitzroy's judgement is in God's hands now.

Mounting the Privy Stairs, the two men make their way through the darkened corridors to the Privy Chamber. Neither are surprised to see a light still burning, though it seems to them that the King has not moved even a muscle since they left him. He is not asleep, but he gives no sign that he is aware of their presence.

"I told you to bring my son back." He says, suddenly, startling them, "Why have you not done so?"

"He has remained at the Tower, Majesty." Brandon explains, knowing that the King shall not welcome this news from Cromwell, "I fear that I must inform you that he is…he is dead."

Slowly, Henry's head rises, "How? Was it Rich? Did that duplicitous scoundrel act against him before you could reach him?" Even now, it seems impossible to him that his son could be the perpetrator of the crimes.

Brandon shakes his head, "No, Majesty. Sir Richard could not have acted against him, for it was your son who had him helpless and about to be murdered. He was preparing to drive a poniard into Sir Richard's side to pierce his heart. Thus…" he pauses, clears his throat, and continues, "…thus I was obliged to shoot him."

"Poniard?" Henry's expression seems almost uncomprehending.

"Majesty," Brandon sits down alongside him, "Forgive me, but I must tell you - when we found your son, he was holding Sir Richard in the deeper of the cells, where he was in the process of beating him; and, we fear, with the intention of continuing until his victim was dead."

"And why would he do such a thing?"

"Sir Richard recognised him to be the killer; thus he decided to pre-empt any possible accusation and accused Sir Richard instead. He and his accomplices suspended him from the ceiling of a cell by his wrists, bared him to the waist and proceeded to flog him most brutally with a leather strap. I am given to understand that he has killed servants before using the same method."

Henry's gaze fixes upon Cromwell's hands, "Why do you have my son's jewel chain?"

Finally, Cromwell speaks, "Forgive me for saying so, Majesty - but this carries items that he stole from his victims. There was one token from each of the five women at Court who died; I removed one of them, for it was an item of great importance to Sir Richard. It is in his hands now."

"I remember…" The King reaches out to take the chain, "I have seen him wearing it, and seen each item appear upon it, one after the other…"

"I can only beg your Majesty's forgiveness." Brandon says, sadly, "Had it been possible to avoid taking the Duke's life, then I would have done so - but I had no alternative. Had I not fired, Sir Richard would have died. His only crime, if crime it be, was to discover Fitzroy's culpability. No man should have to die for discovering the truth behind a criminal act."

Slowly, achingly slowly, Henry's head turns and he regards his friend in silence for a long time, "I grant my forgiveness, Charles." He says, quietly, "If there was no alternative, then I cannot blame you for what you did."

Cromwell stands silent. Though he is grateful that Henry has not referred to his involvement in this sorry business, and that he has accepted Brandon's obvious remorse, it is not lost upon him that the King has shown not one jot of concern for Rich. Would he truly have been willing to demand that sacrifice? An innocent life discarded in order to spare a guilty one? He does not dare to follow that thought to its conclusion - it is quite possible that he shall not like the answer at all.

"What is to be done?" The King sighs, eventually.

"At this time, Majesty," Brandon continues, knowing it shall sound better coming from him, "The Constable has arranged for the Duke's mortal remains to be placed under guard in the Chapel in the Conqueror's keep. There prayers shall be said over him - though his identity shall remain concealed. We should not reveal his passing at this time. That should take place once his accomplices…"

"Accomplices?" Henry asks, dully.

"Four of his retainers, Majesty. It appears that they aided him in the committing of his crimes. At this time, we do not know the extent of their involvement. Thus, we must ensure that as much information is available to us as is possible before we can construct any explanation for all that has passed."

Henry nods, his expression miserable, "Let it be done. I shall consider whether or not to see the…remains in the coming days. Get to it."

* * *

Cromwell sits alone in the investigation room, brooding over all that has happened. Outside, dawn is breaking, and those who have business at such an hour are busy at work.

He looks up as the door opens, "I thought I might find you here." Doctor Butts joins him at the table.

"Richard?"

"He is as well as can be expected. He is currently lodged in the Constable's house; I should prefer not to bring him back to Placentia until he is more rested and in less discomfort. I have only come here myself to apprise you of his condition. I shall return later today; I think it likely that he shall sleep until then."

"How long do you think before he shall be well enough to aid me?"

Butts shakes his head, "Even were he fit to do so, it shall be some time before he shall be able to write again - his wrists are raw, and I suspect the damage to be quite deep. The weals upon his flesh are still tender, and shall remain so for some days; though they shall ease rather sooner than his wrists and his rib."

"So a rib _is_ cracked?"

"Yes. It shall be painful for him to breathe for a few weeks - but there is no significant damage other than bruising. He has been fortunate - the use of the leather strap has saved him from almost certain death."

"That was my thought. Thank God Fitzroy did not use a scourge; they have them at the Tower."

"I have not yet granted him the pearl, my Lord; but I did find the lock of hair in the pocket of his doublet, so he shall find that at his bedside should he wake before I return."

"When do you intend to bring him back to Placentia?"

"Not for a few days yet, my Lord. I think, if you wish to see him, you shall need to come to the Tower."

"That, I shall do. I must return there to interview the men who aided Fitzroy."

"Then take the pearl, my Lord. Give it to him yourself - for it was you who recovered it for him." Butts holds out the jewel.

The pearl is cold and hard on the palm of his hand, and he gazes at it. Unlike most pearls referred to as black, this gem is indeed a true black - something extraordinarily rare, and a fine example of probably the most highly prized of all pearls in the world. Rich must truly have valued Kat to have given her an object of such rarity and expense: it is not a throwaway bauble for a woman in the midst of a temporary liaison.

 _Burn in hell, Fitzroy. I hope you rot in agony for all time for what you did to her. And to him._

With infinite care, Cromwell wraps the jewel into a clean kerchief and sets it gently into a pouch at his waist. Despite his tiredness, he has no time to waste in sleep. Not yet.

There are four vile Courtiers to interview first.

* * *

Thomas Bellman sits in the chair and squirms, fearfully. Like many bullies, he sweats and trembles in the presence of one he considers to be stronger than he; and, despite being considerably lighter in frame, Thomas Cromwell's danger is not his brawn, but his brain.

His expression hard, he stands over Bellman, "Tell me, Mr Bellman; what was your procedure when procuring women for Henry Fitzroy? How did you choose them?"

"We…we did not, my Lord." Bellman stammers, "His Highn…his _Grace_ made the selections for reasons of his own. We assisted in their procurement, but did not choose them."

"And how did he make his choice?"

"I do not know - he would merely demand that we obtain them."

"I take it this was how he behaved when at Collyweston, or one of his other houses?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"And what of his activities in the Palace?" Cromwell leans low and murmurs the question in Bellman's ear. He looks across at the Clerk, who is labouring to keep up with their discussion. If only Rich were here, making notes in his speed-hand…but his wrists are in bandages, his hands cramped to stillness; it may be that he shall never even be able to write again.

"We considered it to be sport, my Lord…" Bellman admits, trembling under the Lord Privy Seal's dangerous glare, "His Grace despised all women - and where he led, I suppose we followed…"

"By choice?"

"I…" he does not continue; he knows from Cromwell's face how admitting to such a thing appears.

"How did you reach the women's quarters?"

"We dressed as servants. It amused his Grace to do so - he would wear a tunic over his doublet to conceal his true identity in the corridors, while we would take turns carrying a bag with spare garments and shoes. None take note of the servants, and so they did not take note of us."

"And when he reached the quarters of the chosen victim?"

"We would advise her that she had caught the eye of the Duke of Richmond - they always agreed to let him in; maybe they thought he would pay them well. They only wanted something to sell."

"It was their only means of earning money to supplement what little they had to maintain their position, Bellman." Cromwell growls, viciously, "What choice did they have?"

"We did not see it that way." Bellman says, his eyes defiant, "They could have found some other means of making money."

"And what would that have been?"

Bellman stares at him, fumbling for an answer.

"What happened then?" Cromwell resumes, without giving the man a chance to think further.

"We remained outside, my Lord. We saw nothing; but we could hear."

"And?"

"There would always be a scream - just a short one. Then, nothing much. We would wait until he knocked upon the door - and then would enter to assist him."

"And the room within did not disturb you?"

"There have been lots of rooms like that." Bellman says, "We had become accustomed to it. It mattered not at Collyweston for he could act unencumbered, and those who cleared the chamber did so under threat of the same fate if they spoke of it. But when we were at Court, we carried extra clothes for his Grace, clean shoes for him - and for us, as the floor was always grotesquely befouled - and his scent. They always reeked like hell, so he put on a lot of it. Then he would put the tunic on again, and we would depart."

"Then he knew that what he did was utterly wrong, and would have brought the greatest of censure upon him?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. It seemed not to concern him that others might object to his activities; he considered it his duty to cleanse the women we visited, and that was of greater importance - as was his assurance that his prostrations before God cleansed him of all taint. It was our purpose to ensure that none would discover him."

"In which case, you have assisted him - and thus you are as culpable as he, for you knew his designs and yet did nothing to prevent his acts, or to save those who were brought to him. Instead, you did all you could to ensure that he was not discovered and stopped."

"But _he_ killed them, my Lord!" Bellman says, a little desperately.

"And you helped him." Cromwell snaps back, "You and your foul cohorts not only did nothing to aid those against whom he set himself, but aided him in reaching them, and then in preventing his being apprehended and stopped!"

"But…I did not! It was the others! They were the ones who did the most! I did not dare to refuse, I…"

"How interesting." Cromwell interrupts, boredly, "That was exactly what Herbert said about the three of you, and then Colling, _and_ Stacke. Each one of you was acting under the duress of the others. How remarkable."

"I beg you, my Lord! Do not send me to the block! I do not want to die - it was the others, I swear it!"

Suddenly the realisation that he has talked himself onto the scaffold is emerging in a torrent of panicked words, pleas to live…to be allowed to go on breathing…

"Did _they_ plead?" Cromwell asks, suddenly, remorselessly, leaning in horribly close to his blubbering prisoner, "Did they beg for their lives as Fitzroy tortured them for his own pleasure and yours? His papers tell much; that he was not alone when he acted at Collyweston, or at his other houses. I think there might even have been references to your actual _involvement_ \- though I would have to return to the coffer to find the appropriate papers…"

"Oh Jesus Christ…God…oh God Almighty…spare me! Spare me, I beg you!"

Cromwell glowers at the man in disgust. Of them all, only Stacke had managed to keep his composure once he knew - rather than feared - that his words had condemned him to die.

"You are not for the block, Bellman." He says, quietly.

"Oh, thank Christ…thank you, my Lord…thank you…"

"You, Bellman, as are your cohorts, are for the noose, followed by drawing and quartering. You conspired with Fitzroy against the King's Majesty. Do not think I am unaware of that. It shall be a traitor's death for you all. One after the other - and only the first of you to die shall not watch the others meet their end."

"My Lord! Mercy! I beg you, mercy!" he is wailing now, rising from his chair as the guard hastens to restrain him.

"What?" Cromwell asks, turning back as he prepares to leave the room, "I thought you derived pleasure from watching others die in agony?"

Bellman's howls follow him as he departs; his expression stony. There is someone else he wishes to see, someone far more deserving of his sympathy.

* * *

Rich shifts in the bed, and moans, softly. He has been awake now for longer than he would have wished, and cannot get comfortable. His back is sore, his front is sore and so are his sides - and if he attempts to lie upon the side with the cracked rib, then it is as though his entire chest shall explode. Doctor Butts has refused to allow him any more poppy juice to ease the pain, for he has seen men become dependent upon its effects, and does not intend to inflict such a plight upon his patient. Instead, he must now endure, and he has no wish to do so.

At least Butts found the packet in his doublet. Had he lost that, then he could not have stood to go on living - for in place of Kat's pearl, it is all that he has left of her; a touchstone to her memory that keeps him from utter collapse in the face of his pain, humiliation and grief. He cannot hold it; for his hands are still oddly numb, and he does not want to risk dropping it.

Cursing again as his bruising aches, and the declining welts throb, he wonders what is happening. He is still at the Tower - that much he has been told, but Butts has not been to see him in a day or more, and while Mrs Kingston is a commendable nurse, she knows nothing of the events that have led to his being here…

 _No…do not think of it…not now…not yet…not ever…_

He closes his eyes against the encroaching sunlight that is his one comfort after his night in the cell. The darkness, even lit by candles, is almost more than he can bear - and he only accepts it in the knowledge that the dawn shall come. Fitzroy is dead. Dead and gone - answering for his crimes before the seat of God's judgement. If that is the only judgement that he shall face, at least there is no court higher.

The door opens, and he shifts slightly, with another faint moan from the pain, to see Cromwell, "My Lord." He says, quietly.

"Richard." Cromwell draws up a chair and sits alongside the bed, "I would ask after your wellbeing - but I think I can anticipate your answer."

There is something wrong - he can sense it: that stiffness that had once been between them appears to have returned, and the formality with it. Rich is keeping him at arm's length, it seems.

"What is happening? Goodwife Kingston does not know anything."

"I have completed the interrogations of Fitzroy's retainers." Cromwell opts not to notice Rich's slight flinch at the mention of Richmond's name, "They have advised how they committed the murders, and their means of hiding their involvement."

"How was it done, then?"

"Through deception. They dressed in the livery of Stewards - including Richmond - and called upon their victims. Each of them admitted Richmond on the grounds that he was a Duke. They waited outside while he committed his crime, then provided him with the means to clean and fragrance himself before they returned to his apartments. The befouled clothes were sent to a laundry close to Smithfield that served slaughtermen."

"That is not what happened to Kat, is it?" Rich says, his tone hostile, "I heard them mocking her when we were aboard the barge."

Cromwell sighs, and shakes his head, "They were all involved in that - for she refused the Duke entry. Once she was restrained, they departed and allowed him to his business."

Rich's head sinks back to the pillows, and he closes his eyes.

Without another word, Cromwell reaches carefully into the pouch at his waist, and retrieves the kerchief. He has taken care of the pearl, but also obtained a chain so that it can be worn once more, "I retrieved the chain, Richard. The pearl was upon it - and I have found a new chain so that you might wear it."

Rich's eyes flicker open again, and he stares at it, "I thought I should never see it again." Fumbling awkwardly, he takes it and carefully eases the chain over his head so that it is about his neck, as its weight makes it easier to keep hold of than that packet containing Kat's lock of hair. Even as he does so, Cromwell can see the rising tears, and stands, "I shall leave you in peace, Richard. When you are well enough to return to the Palace, I shall speak to you again."

His eyes closed, his right hand clutched about the pearl that now rests upon his chest, Rich nods, but says nothing as the tears escape down his temples and soak into his hair.

* * *

Brandon reads the report, and sighs, "So they _are_ involved."

"Utterly, your Grace." Cromwell agrees, "I think that we can, under the circumstances, feel no shame in laying the blame at their feet. While they did not commit the kill itself, they helped to set the circumstances in motion and aided Fitzroy throughout. With Miss Silverton, however, they were present to force her to allow Fitzroy into her rooms. She knew more details of the murders than any other, for Rich kept her informed of our progress. Her insight was invaluable to us, for we knew nothing of the workings of the women at Court. Her courage when faced with her end was admirable - though I wish that it had been rewarded in this life, and not in the next. Rich is quite lost without her."

"I never thought him capable of love."

"Nor did I. I think, until Kat came to him, neither did he."

They look up as the door from the King's private apartments open, and rise to bow as Henry limps into the room, "What is to be done, Gentlemen?"

"The four retainers were so utterly involved in all he did that we think it best that they carry the blame for the deaths as much as…as…" Brandon struggles to speak the name.

"As Fitzroy." Henry finishes, darkly.

"Yes, Majesty." He clears his throat and continues, "Thus they shall be dragged to Tyburn, there to be hanged until near dead, then cut down, disembowelled and quartered, for they conspired against your Majesty with the intention of claiming control of the soon-to-be-born Prince."

"And what of Fitzroy?"

"It should be given out that Fitzroy died a year ago - in St James's Palace, of the consumption. The plot began some years ago - and, in order to bring them down, you assigned them to a pretender Fitzroy, who reported to you upon their activities. Unfortunately, he was unable to prevent them from carrying out their perverted murders without risking revealing his identity. Now that they are apprehended, however, the pretender has returned to obscurity, and they shall face justice for their crimes."

Henry nods, his expression pained.

"All papers pertaining to the work to legitimise the late Duke dated later than the given date of death shall be gathered and destroyed." Cromwell adds.

"No one is to speak of Fitzroy." Henry says, hoarsely, "Not ever again. His name is not to be mentioned in my presence. Is that clear? Get Norfolk to arrange his burial - somewhere secret. He is the boy's father in law. Let him do it."

"Yes, Majesty. It shall be assumed that you withheld your grief until this time - and thus now mourn your late son." Brandon finishes.

"Let it be done."

They bow and withdraw, leaving Henry alone and brooding in the empty silence of the Privy Chamber.

* * *

"It is a ridiculous idea." Rich snaps, bitterly, as he looks up from his chair beside the fire, "Who would believe such nonsense? All have seen him; all know who he was!"

He has been back in his quarters for several days, but has not yet emerged from them. Cromwell wonders if he is hiding until he can resume his work, or simply has no intention of returning to the Court and waits until he is strong enough to withstand the ride to his estates in Essex.

"Does Suffolk truly believe that the Court shall swallow this?" He continues.

Cromwell smiles, mirthlessly, "Believe me, Mr Rich, it is astonishing what a Court can be induced, collectively, to believe. All shall accept it, for they do not wish to look as though there is a great secret from which they are excluded. Gradually, the false tale shall supplant the true tale, until, eventually it _becomes_ the true tale. Even those who remember shall ensure that they forget."

"I shall not forget." Rich's fingertips stroke over the smooth perfection of the pearl, his eyes hard, "I shall never forget." There are no tears now; he has displayed such womanish foolishness for long enough - and has no wish to be seen to be so weak again. Weakness is exploited in this Court - he knows full well that it is, for he is one of those who has exploited it.

Cromwell sighs, "His Majesty has decreed that the Duke of Norfolk shall oversee the removal of the corpse to a place of rest. It is likely to be amongst his own relatives, I suspect. There is to be no ceremony."

"I want to see it." Rich says, suddenly, "I want to be certain that he is truly gone. That he shall not return."

There is a determination in his tone, and Cromwell knows that he shall not accept a refusal.

"If he is in the ground," Rich continues, "then perhaps he shall stop being in my head. And my dreams."

For a moment, Cromwell considers extending his hand to rest it on his friend's shoulder, but then he stops. That thaw that had occurred, that had created a rapprochement, and then a friendship, has frozen hard again…somehow, he knows, without knowing how he does so, that any contact on his part shall be utterly unwelcome.

"I shall speak to his Grace." He says, suddenly very tired. Fitzroy has taken so much away from them - and now it seems that even their friendship shall be a casualty of the Bastard Prince.


	24. Epilogue: A Tomb in Norfolk

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

EPILOGUE

 _A Tomb in Norfolk_

As dawn breaks over a small wayside inn on the Norwich Road, Cromwell looks out of the window of the room he has engaged for the night to see a dank, dull day beyond the leads. He has not slept as well as he had expected, despite a long, tiring day in the saddle yesterday.

In the weeks that have passed since the horrible events in the Tower, the discoveries that have come to light from Collyweston are even more grotesque. Far from being servants, those who were engaged to cleanse the chamber in which Fitzroy committed his atrocities were held at the house, and their work was not merely part of their duties, but instead their only hope of remaining alive. Their testimonies confirmed all that the four retainers had told him - and far more that he would not even have wanted to know.

How on earth had Fitzroy managed to keep such activities hidden? If he has been so prolific, surely the degree of disappearances would have been noticed? But then he remembers - only a few of the victims were from a background considered to be modest. Most of those who died in that house were prostitutes; despised trulls without any to defend them - and none would remark upon it if such women vanished without trace. He shudders at the thought - those poor women: they must have known when all was too late that none would know of their peril, or care enough to come to their aid even if they did. On the contrary - most so-called gentlefolk would consider it just punishment for the immorality of a whore. And that makes it all worse, for the horrible papers in that black coffer suggest that most of those unfortunate captives were held in misery for several days - and even in a few cases permitted the illusion of escape, only to be hunted down and recaptured - before death ended their torment.

One of the imprisoned servants also said that the victims' remains were disposed of not in a grave, but upon bonfires in the midst of woodland far out in the park. The commissioner who had been sent to speak to them was taken to the spot, and admitted to Cromwell in his report that he had been so sickened by the ghastly heaps of ashes and charred bones that he found amidst the trees of that lonely copse that he had vomited. So they did not just die horribly, but their burial was prevented. It seems that Fitzroy's disdain of them knew no bounds.

Despite all that has happened over the past year, Cromwell is surprised to find that he has retained the King's favour, to a degree that ensures he is still safe at Court. He is, however, not blind to the realities that surround him; for even though his Majesty still looks to him as his Chief Minister, something has changed - changed utterly. There is a darkness to Henry now: a sense of brooding malice in the face of a great, deep betrayal by one of his own blood. He has no choice but to accept the truth of Fitzroy's actions - but still he seeks to find others to blame if he can. After all, such madness must have come from somewhere - and he has no wish for others to believe that it came from him. Thus no one who was present to witness that madness speaks of the once-lauded Henry Fitzroy, Henry Son-of-the-King; an unspoken silence that was never ordered or decreed, but is obeyed without question.

Norfolk might well be charged with the burial arrangements of his son-in-law, but there is nothing in the funeral arrangements that suggests the deceased is of noble descent or birth. None of the Howard family are expected to be present today, for they have no desire to see the mortal remains of a murderous youth whose sanity was doubted laid to rest amidst their more august relatives - even though he was a Royal Duke when he lived, and was almost made a Prince of the Blood, too. That it must happen is one thing, but their presence is quite another, and not a single one of them has any desire to participate in the ceremony to come. They know that dreadful truth - and are as silent about it as the rest who are so burdened.

 _How ironic_ , he thinks to himself, _that_ _the only person who truly wishes to be present is the one whom Fitzroy hurt the most._

While he is well enough to have returned to his desk, Rich struggles to write for long periods, and his once fine Chancery hand is no longer neat. He cannot set things down quickly in his remarkable speed-hand; nor can he use swan quills any more and must instead settle for goose, for he has lost some of the dexterity in his fingers. Whether it shall return, Doctor Butts has not been able to say, so he continues to write untidily in longhand, and is forced to stop writing far more frequently than he would once have done.

He has not spoken of his ordeal in the Tower to Cromwell - and probably not to anyone else, either. Other than that which he saw himself, Cromwell knows nothing of what passed between captor and captive. It is not, however, over. He can see that from the shadows under Rich's eyes, the slightly fearful expressions that he sometimes shows when in a crowd amongst the Courtiers - as though he imagines he has heard Fitzroy's voice nearby, or seen him amongst a sea of faces. Did he not say that he wanted to be here in the hope that the youth would cease to haunt his thoughts, or his dreams? Not that he has said so since - the stiff formality that once marked all their conversations has returned, and Rich's dealings with him are courteous, but quietly detached. Perhaps he is embarrassed over his outburst of tears in that cell, or the humiliation of being so wounded in the presence of higher-ranked men - Cromwell is conscious enough of human nature to appreciate it likely. Regardless of its source, however, he has resumed that initial aloofness, and it is as though the friendship they had formed never existed at all.

He breaks his fast alone, and does not see Rich until he emerges into the yard where their horses have been stabled. They shall commence their return to Court later today on horseback, but - as mourners should - they shall follow the coffin on foot. While Cromwell habitually wears black, he has rarely seen Rich attired so, and the sight of his mourning garb is quite startling. From his drawn, pale face, it is clear that he has slept no better, and he does not seem even willing to look across at the man that he had once considered a friend.

With no member of the Howard family present, they are the only mourners to escort the coffin as it is drawn from the nearby church of St Cuthbert on a simple wagon, resting upon a bed of straw. To any casual observer, it would appear to be the funeral of one barely more than a peasant - the shrouded corpse coffined only for transportation to the church, before being removed from it for burial in a shroud once that final journey was complete. Hardly a fitting cortège for a Royal Duke: mad or no.

As he walks alongside the Lord Privy Seal, Rich attempts to forget the brutal dreams that broke his sleep throughout the night that has passed. Even that cold presence of the black pearl upon his chest served only to scream at him of his loss, and the pain grew so great in the darkest hours before dawn that he almost snatched it from about his neck and hurled it across the room.

 _As long as you are with me, Kat; I shall always care_.

But she is not. She is gone - and all that remains of her now is a lock of hair and a gem. He shall always wear it - _always_ ; but without her, he has lost that will to care, the sense of joy in the presence of another human being. The need for friendship. He gave his heart to Kat, and it was torn out of him. He shall not make that mistake again. Yes. It is better not to care - so he shall not. Once that bastard is in the ground, perhaps then the horrible memories shall also leave him be.

As always, he does not notice that his expressive face is telling Cromwell everything. The stiff formality was signal enough, but that quiet determination to never feel pain again is equally telling. It seems that, when she died, Kat took something of Richard Rich with her. That thawing of his colder instincts has ceased; and he shall not trust anyone from this day forth. Equally, he shall neither accept - or grant - friendship to any beyond a guarded degree of acquaintance. All that matters to him now is to serve the King to the best of his ability, and throw himself into work that shall gain him advancement and wealth - just as he once did. It was a strategy that served him well throughout his first years at Court, and so he shall resume it. The love he had once possessed has caused him almost unimaginable suffering - and he has no wish to endure it ever again.

Does he know that his colleague can see it all? Even if he did - would he care?

And so they follow the wagon the short distance from the Church to the Priory, together, and yet apart, while small wisps of mist curl about the trees that seem almost like clawed hands, reaching upward in vain supplication to an uncaring sky, and crows call dismally to one another from the branches. If their thoughts are desolate, then so are their surroundings.

There is no sign from the Brothers that the two men are unwelcome. Either they are remarkably forgiving of the two royal ministers who are overseeing the closure of their houses, or they do not know who the two mourners are. Perhaps they are setting their opinions aside out of respect for the Dead; for they stay silent, and escort the coffin into the great Priory church, where a place amongst the tombs of the Howards awaits the mortal remains of Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond.

It has been as Brandon and Cromwell predicted. No one at Court has wanted to be seen to be deceived by the non-existent deception, and so all have either believed without question, or claimed that they, too, were aware of it. The false tale has been accepted, and eventually those who claim to believe it, _shall_ believe it. Histories shall be written and - while Cromwell has no doubt that any histories that shall be written of his years at Court shall not serve him kindly - they shall speak of the tragedy of Richmond's death from consumption in the month of July, barely two months after the death of Anne Boleyn. They shall not know that the date that was written is that of the finding of the first of the Court women that he killed.

Given Rich's wish to be at this ceremony, it was something of a surprise to Cromwell that he did not attend the executions of those four retainers who had watched so eagerly as he suffered before their eyes. They met their end ignominiously and ingloriously at Tyburn, accompanied by the jeers of a raucous crowd who thought them to be murderous traitors that plotted the death of the King. They are dead and gone: and that, it seems, is enough for Rich. He has no wish to recall his pain, misery and humiliation - even if it is through the witnessing of a just punishment upon those who helped to bring it about, and who were so entertained by it; his interest is in what shall happen today.

It takes some effort to move the coffin, for it is lined with lead, thanks to the time that has passed between the death and the burial. The Prior leads it into the great church, _I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live_. Still together, yet apart, Cromwell and Rich follow in silence, _I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth._

All stand beside the fine vault that shall hold the vile murderer that has seen no earthly justice. Cromwell stands quietly, while beside him Rich seems to stare almost fixedly at the coffin, as though waiting for the youth within to burst out of it and demand that he speak the _Confiteor_ once again.

 _Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we therefore commit his body to the ground…_

 _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._ Cromwell thinks to himself, much as his Majesty's joy was turned to dust and ashes. _The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away_.

As the Prior finishes with the Grace, and the brothers not directly involved in the final transfer of the coffin to the vault drift back to their work, Cromwell sighs deeply, "And that, is that."

Beside him, Rich says nothing. His expression miserable, his eyes dead, he turns and walks away. He has had his vengeance - and is discovering as he departs that there is nothing left for him now but emptiness.

 _And so he, too, has died this day_. Cromwell thinks to himself. Rich's love for Kat had reached into him so deeply that it had touched upon the better parts of his soul and pulled them to the fore. Without her to anchor them, they have sunk back into the depths, and he knows that, while there is no longer any active enmity between them, there is now only one person to whom Richard Rich is loyal - other, of course, than the King.

Standing alone as the vault is sealed, he sighs - he seems to have done that so much recently - there was so much hope…so much promise…in that young boy. All unfulfilled, all lost - and washed out in a tide of innocent blood.

"De profundis." He murmurs, "Let Israel trust in the Lord, for with the Lord there is mercy and plenteous redemption. And he shall redeem Israel from all his sins."

Perhaps her Majesty shall yet have a son. If that is so, then the King shall, at last, have completed his first duty - to father an heir to his Crown. Yes - there is still that to hope for. Besides, Queen Jane is young, and there is every possibility that she shall bring more children into the world.

He looks at the closed vault, "Out of the deep call I unto the Lord. Lord, hear my voice…"

The words fade into echoes. There is nothing left now to say; it is done. His eyes sad and his heart heavy, Cromwell turns and departs as the echoes fade away.

* * *

 **A/N:** _A short historical note._ While the dating is not correct - for obvious reasons - the circumstances of Fitzroy's burial in this epilogue are based on what was recorded at the time. Henry VIII did indeed require Norfolk to oversee the burial of his son - and this was done with astonishingly little ceremony. So much so, in fact, that the King wrote a stiff letter to the Duke after the fact to demand to know why there had been so little pomp over the burial of a royal Duke. Needless to say, Norfolk blamed his servants for the oversight.

The body was transported to Thetford from London, and carried to the Priory on a straw-covered cart. It was not accompanied by any member of the Howard family, and there were indeed only two witnesses present. History does not appear to record who they were, so I inserted Cromwell and Rich in their places.

The general consensus is that Fitzroy died of tuberculosis, or a similar disorder of the lungs, as there seems to have been a propensity for it in the Tudor family - though TB was, of course, endemic in the 16th century and beyond. The lack of reference to an illness until very shortly before his death has led to some conjecture by later historians - and the speed at which he was buried after his death equally suggests potentially a worse illness, such as the Sweat or even Pneumonic plague, which is notorious for its swift lethality. While I had him interred in a lead-lined coffin, in fact that was not the case; another thing that was quite striking at the time and suggests a burial undertaken in haste.

One conjecture which is particularly interesting - albeit something of a fringe view that I found in a blog post - is that Henry himself acted against Fitzroy. It has been speculated that the young man might have served as a focus for discontent after Henry broke with Rome; and, given that he was hopeful for a son from Queen Jane, the fear (justified or not) that Fitzroy might be conspiring against him drove Henry to have him murdered. It's even been suggested that the loss of Fitzroy was a contributing factor in Henry's descent into distrust and paranoia after the mid 1530s.

Regardless of how he died, Henry Fitzroy, 1st Duke of Richmond, was laid to rest in Thetford Priory following his death on 22 (or possibly 23) July 1536. Following the dissolution of the Priory, his remains - along with those of the other Howards interred there - were moved to the Church of St Michael the Archangel in Framlingham, where they remain to this day.

* * *

Finally:

Thank you everyone for the reads, likes and reviews. And a re-expression of thanks to the Rose of Truro for suggesting this plot bunny. I couldn't have done it without you!

Also, thanks to John Rutter for 'Out of the Deep', the second movement of his Requiem - which inspired the title, and the use of Psalm 130. And to Arvo Pärt, whose own 'De Profundis' has a dark, almost sorrowful, edge to it that felt quite fitting for this story.


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